Like In A Mirror (Renewed!)
by Gretchiro
Summary: What is life like "after Noir"? How to continue to live with the killer of your family? How to retain a human relationship? When Mireille and Kirika think they have left behind their days as Noir, a contract appears. Then two strangers-yet seemingly familiar in ways they cannot understand...
1. Chapter 1: The Question of Living

Chapter 1

The Question of Living

The death of Altena and Chloe toppled the new practice of Le Grande Retour with them. However, they were only participants of a bigger entity: the Soldats themselves. A separate world nearly intangible, shadows that haunted Noir. No matter their attempts, Noir could not run away from their own shadows.

Despite everything, since the fall of Le Grande Retour, the Soldats were damaged by the surprise Noir displayed in the final trials. They retreated into the shadows, probably running around frantically to revive their organization, finding new leaders and methods, leaving Noir alone.

But that came at a cost. One of them had to kill one more human being, who was part of her.

Chloe.

The one whom Kirika considered to be a lot like her. Both of them rooted from the same darkness that nurtured them. Without question, Chloe loved her—loved her as a demon. Still, it was _love_. After Mireille rejected her for her demons, after Kirika admitted to murdering her family, Chloe took Kirika in.

Kirika wasn't a fool, though—that Chloe deliberately led her to her loneliness, manipulating Noir all the way, even to Kirika's appearance at the Manor. But still. She was the only one who'd love Kirika, alone in this world she woke up to.

Assassin or not, Kirika was still afraid of reality, of dreams, of all the strangers and loved ones she killed, including Chloe. She wanted to rip off those masks that called themselves Soldats, but most importantly, her own. She wanted to reveal a new face that expressed how she felt, to the world, to others . . .

And to Mireille.

Mireille.

That hot-headed, condescending, unapproachable Corsican heiress. A fallen angel who harbored her own flaws which were, strangely enough, still angelic. She was not the other Noir. She was Kirika's partner. Her friend. Her love. The only love Kirika would ever know. Kirika planned to keep it that way, to never have to take the life of a loved one again.

Kirika wanted to say it, but like everyone else, she couldn't express herself no matter how much she tried. She had never learned to love, only to pull a trigger. Never had she been loved. Perhaps, by parents long forgotten to her—but love? It was a stranger, a painter at the park, a woman with a gun, an old man with a kitten, a clueless girl . . . another shadow hiding around every corner, waiting to strike like an assassin. As usual, Kirika inadvertently dodged such things.

The door to their apartment opened. Kirika, lost in thought, stumbled backwards but caught herself.

"For an assassin, you suck at being quiet behind a door," said Mireille, her hair bundled up in a towel, the scent of soap stinging Kirika's nostrils. The French sighed, stepping aside. "_Well?_ Come in."

"Sorry," murmured Kirika, smiling weakly. She hugged the wrapped box to her chest and strode in.

When they walked to the middle of the living room, Mireille leaned against the pool table in her sky-blue nightshirt that fell elegantly to her naked thighs. She questioned her partner with icy-blue eyes. "What's that?" Those eyes burned deep into Kirika.

"Mail," said Kirika plainly.

"Pretty fancy for our mailman's taste," muttered Mireille, humming thoughtfully; she tilted her head. "I didn't forget my own birthday? No . . . it's not Valentine's Day either, or . . ."

Kirika looked out the window. Mireille followed her gaze, wondering what Kirika always saw out there she found amusing. She then eyed the decorated package suspiciously. With a finger, she touched the corner of the box like a cat batting at something curious.

"I don't think it's a bomb," said Kirika, who hadn't turned around.

Mireille shrugged and started gingerly unwrapping the box. She paused. There was a gun inside. It wasn't till she saw the wooden picture frame underneath that she gaped. It was a photo of her family, what was left of them.

"I found it in your uncle's," said Kirika carefully.

Mireille's head snapped up, glaring at the girl at the window. "It's a strange gift, even from you."

"Do whatever you like with it," whispered Kirika, looking down at the floor.

Mireille refused to touch the photo. However, she grabbed the gun she recognized as Kirika's. She pulled it out and aimed it at Kirika, who perked up to the sound of the click. The Japanese closed her eyes, exhaling, shoulders shuddering.

The blonde observed her, sneaking another look at her family photo. It was a picture of all the Bouquets sitting at one of their grand porches: she was sitting on her mother's lap, her father standing by them holding her brother's pinkish cherub hand. Uncle Claude stood on her mother Odette's other side. Such striking resemblance.

"What are you waiting for?" whispered Kirika.

Even though they won at the Manor, Kirika still anticipated Mireille to fulfill her promise. Sure, Mireille saved her from from Altena, but only to carry out the deed herself, right? That's what Noir agreed on when they first met, after all. The gift right here, right now, was supposed to be their last tender moment together. It would allow Mireille to shoot the remnants of painful memories, as well as the cause of them.

Mireille lowered the gun, smiling grimly. "I'm not going to shoot you, ya know. You're a guest in _my_ home, and you dare to ask that much of me?"

Kirika looked up awkwardly, yet with hidden pang. "Mireille, please. It's the way I wanted things to end—not at the Manor, but here, with you, the only place we found peace."

Mireille glanced around her small apartment. It was a bit bullet-ridden from that stormy night battling the masked Knights of the Soldats on the rooftops. She had cleaned it up a bit since Kirika left the cemetery for the Manor, but still, it could use more. She didn't plan on doing all the cleaning herself. Someone was to blame.

Mireille gave a weary smile. "I know it feels weird and awkward coming back. We never thought it would end this way, that things would be . . . _quiet_. It's been about a week. We'll have to get used to it. So while we do that, you help me finish cleaning up our home."

Kirika's nose reddened as she tried to hold herself up, but she crumbled to her knees against the air conditioner by the table where their potted plant laid tilted on its side. It was broken with spilled dirt, untouched from the gunfight.

Kirika bowed her head, her tiny cracked voice cracking Mireille's heart.

"I'm sorry for everything, Mireille," sobbed Kirika, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.

Kirika heard footsteps. Sensing Mireille standing over her, she looked up. The Corsican was adjusting her family photo on the small table, ignoring the plant with bullet holes punched into its giant leaves. Kirika stood up, trying to get a hold of herself. Meanwhile, Mireille frowned, studying the picture frame.

"Hm. Well. It'll have to do, with our plant shot to death," said Mireille, clucking her tongue. "What do you think?"

Mireille didn't look her in the eye, though. Kirika couldn't really see anyway through her hazy vision. She wiped her face again, suddenly feeling gross and ashamed.

"This place will look nice again, eventually," sighed Mireille. "I'm sure we'll add more things to liven it up." Finally, Mireille turned and looked at Kirika. "How does that sound?"

Kirika sniffled uncontrollably again. Then she nodded with a quivering smile. "I would like that," she said.

Mireille smiled. It was her usual, casual one, the kind that refused to show its true length in fear of vulnerability. And yet, it was still a smile. It was still aimed at Kirika. And how selfish of Kirika to think it would never mean anything, that Mireille would never mean it, that Mireille was a selfish person. To contemplate the easy way out from all the pain she caused to both of them—while Mireille stood there, trying to tell her in her Mireille way, that they would continue to _live_ together.

Yes, Kirika would like that.

"You need to stop thinking and acting like the Soldats want you to," said Mireille during breakfast. She sipped her morning tea. "You're not an assassin. You're human. You're Kirika."

Kirika smiled at the comfort, chewing her crisp toast. She could never get used to hearing the French say her name. When she said it, it really did sound like it was _her_ name.

Mireille was warming up to her more than ever, along with this beautiful morning. There was always something romantic about Paris under dawnlight, looking out to those endless rows of the same-looking houses. The humming fan, the faint traffic outside—mundane things that Kirika realized she took advantage of. She closed her eyes to appreciate such sounds. She opened her eyes again, walking to the window to watch artists at their vendors making conversation with each other as they set up.

Mireille looked up from the daily paper, watching Kirika. "You know," she said, "there's more to life than looking out a window at it." Mireille stopped herself, chuckling, thinking about their days as Noir. "Huh. Never mind."

The girl at the window didn't budge. She smiled, though, to Mireille's silly words, to the rarity of such a lukewarm voice.

Mireille sighed, leaning her chin on her folded hands. She hummed in agreement to Kirika's pondering silence. "I know. What . . . _now_?"

"Whatever we see fit." Kirika looked over, smiling.

Mireille blinked. Her heart iced with the recollections of Chloe's similar grin and mannerisms.

"Chloe?" asked Kirika knowingly.

Mireille smiled thinly. "You knew, huh?" She shook off the shivers, turning a page.

"Your eyes."

Mireille jested, "Guess we really are the True Noir—."

"No." Kirika said it with full force, with anger and sadness.

"I'm sorry." Mireille felt extremely naked for some reason. "For a moment . . . I knew what it felt to be like Chloe. The jealousy when I saw you two fight together. The yearning to feel that power and unison—that connection."

"And I begged for you to stop staring at me that way," demanded Kirika in her soft voice. "I _begged_ you not to think about her anymore."

Mireille waved her hands in front of her defensively, sighing. "Right, right." She rubbed the nape of her neck, combing out morning hair into webs between her fingers. After awkwardly playing with her gold locks, she cleared her throat.

"Let's take a stroll?" she blurted.

Kirika beamed excitedly. Again, it reminded Mireille of Chloe's expressions. She shook it off, and walked over to the closet blocked by their single bed. She threw on gray leggings, not bothering to change out of her silky, overgrown nightshirt.

"I dunno about you, but I miss some window-shopping," she said heartily, slinging her pink purse over her shoulder. "C'mon. Let's go do _something_."

Kirika sheepishly shrugged.

Mireille grimaced at her rudeness. "I didn't mean it like that. We both know you are _far_ from boring."

They both chuckled. And then, without a moment's pause, looked at Kirika's gun left untouched on the pool table. They exchanged uncertain glances, until Mireille finally shook her head.

"Not today," she murmured, with a triumphant glow in her eyes.

Kirika wore the same expression as they left the gun behind.

After leaving the grocery store, the duo headed back for Mireille's apartment. Their apartment. Their home. The thing that bound them together.

Mireille insisted to carry a majority of their groceries, including her impulsive bonus of shirts and skirts. Kirika sauntered next to her, holding only three small paper bags. She kept an eye on Mireille's waning strength in the attempt to be extra benevolent today; Kirika felt tempted to brag about how they should have taken the moped. But Kirika decided against it as her friend hummed happily to herself along the cobble street.

The cut on Mireille's cheek from their confrontation was now slightly silver, blended into that flawless French skin. This relieved Kirika, trying to remove such memories. She didn't notice where they were walking, just as they bumped shoulders with two equally unobservant girls.

Mireille's purse and groceries rolled everywhere. "Embarrassing . . ." she cursed, falling to her knees. Kirika helped swathe and pick up their fallen purchases.

Mireille opened her mouth ready to yell, but stared into the same mysterious, mud-colored eyes as Kirika's. They were beadier, a forgotten twinkling darkness.

"Watch where you're going!" barked a dirty-blonde girl, who stood there in disbelief since the collision.

_Ugh. Asian _and_ American,_ thought Mireille, glaring. _I'm gonna have to talk two languages here . . ._

"Excuse us," apologized the tan Asian, bowing, clumsily dropping Mireille's things.

_Oh, she speaks French?_ thought Mireille, admiring the Asian's long black braid dropping over her shoulder like thick rope, who bowed repeatedly, as if for repentance.

"Um, no problem," said Mireille, her boiling anger slightly simmering.

The other blonde glared back, _tsking_ to herself as she helped the Asian pick up the rest. Kirika and Mireille froze. The tip of a gun peeked from Mireille's purse. Kirika casually turned her head to Mireille, yet deep in her eyes Mireille sensed she was upset.

Why _did_ she have her gun? Their assassin days were over . . .

Mireille casually grabbed her purse before anyone else could, and zipped it up.

"Here ya go," said the Asian, collecting a fallen hand lotion and stuffing it with the rest of their things.

"Thank you," said Kirika, bowing her head in return. "Um . . . I'm Kirika." She bowed deeper, scraping the grocery bag against her forehead. Hearing herself say that, to introduce her official name to strangers, felt foreign yet nice.

Mireille shot her a look. So much for hiding their names. They would be shot in the back in no time—wait, stop, what was she _thinking_, they were no longer Noir!

"Oh, I'm Tsuki," giggled the Asian, startled by Kirika's etiquette. She shook hands with Kirika, who clearly tried to hold on to their things. "And my friend here is Rhain."

"They don't need to know that," said Rhain, scowling her friend.

"So you're Japanese?" asked Kirika.

"So you _are_ Japanese!" they squealed.

"That's what I thought," boasted Rhain, grinning at her friend.

Mireille stared. _Putting these two together, they must be American . . ._ She glanced at Kirika, who seemed thrilled to be in a conversation with someone of similar ethnicity she could relate to. Someone she could _talk_ to, period. Someone they didn't have to kill for once.

However, her load was getting heavy. Tsuki and Rhain looked at her questioningly, which flustered Mireille even more. She saw Kirika moving in to help, but the other two already dove in to keep the bags from toppling again.

"Here," offered Tsuki, removing a few bags from Mireille's possession. "It's the least we can do after our little tsunami of an entrance."

"Thanks . . ." grunted Mireille, rearranging her load in her arms.

"YE~AHH!" answered Rhain, grinning with thumbs-up.

"You're bleeding, Rhain," blurted Tsuki, looking down.

Rhain ignored it, her hands clearly full. "Nah."

"Rhain—."

"Forget it—."

"It's getting on your boot—."

"GET IT OFF!" The American swatted frantically at the leak dribbling from her knee above her buckled knee-high boots. She dropped the bags in the process, earning Mireille a very impatient look as her new shirt rolled out of its wrapping.

"We could give you a Band-Aid," offered Kirika. "If you could help us with our stuff, we can bring you to our apartment just a few blocks down."

Mireille glared at her.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Tsuki.

"It's really not a big deal," protested Rhain.

Mireille narrowed her eyes at Kirika. _"Yeah."_ She faked a smile at the others. "Let's just get this stuff going before the yogurt melts . . ."

"Yeah, don't worry about it," insisted Rhain, hopping away from Tsuki's attempt to take a look at her leg. "Sis, just grab their shit and let's get goin' so we're not a hassle to them."

"I wouldn't mind making you some tea for your trouble," said Kirika, who intently led them all toward the apartment. Mireille had never seen the girl so forward with what she wanted, with something as simple as company. They were lucky they managed to paint over the bullet holes, just to hide them from the maintenance that sometimes snuck in unannounced—

_The gun! On the pool table!_ Mireille nearly gasped aloud, as they were already walking up to her apartment. She looked at Kirika, desperate to grab her attention. The Japanese was too busy making small talk with Tsuki, their heads peeking behind the tall, bulking grocery bags.

As all four walked through the door, Mireille took advantage of the tall grocery bags. "Please hold this for a moment," she requested, shoving her burden into the unsuspecting Rhain's arms. Mireille rushed over to the pool table pretending to remove the porcelain balls. When she turned around, she hid the gun behind her. The girls busied themselves with scooting their loads onto the pool table, oblivious to Mireille's hand by her side, gun under the table.

From behind, Kirika casually walked by, grabbing the gun and walking to their bed. Mireille watched her sit on the bed, as if to take her shoes off, then slip the gun under the bed.

"Woo! You sure love to shop," exclaimed Rhain, shaking her hands from the heavy loud.

"Thanks," said Mireille, trying to remind herself how to sound cheerful in the company of strangers. She stared at Tsuki and Rhain, who gave a polite sweep of the apartment, nodding in admiration. Rhain wore a slightly frilly blouse with tight sleeves and a square-shaped neckline. White and green lacy patterns dominated the fabric, over her black leggings and buckled knee-high boots. Tsuki wore similar leggings, except with flipflops, and a humble red tank top with black rims.

Rhain happened to catch Mireille looking. She returned the stare with intense, hazel eyes. "You're not so pretty yourself," she said rather bluntly.

Mireille gave a flat face. _So damn rude!_

_"Really?"_ said Tsuki, nudging Rhain.

"She's creepy. Let's go." Rhain pulled Tsuki's arm, but the latter pulled back. She frowned at her, then bowed to Mireille and Kirika.

"Sorry for the trouble," said Tsuki, forcing Rhain to bow.

"You sure you don't want some tea?" asked Kirika.

Mireille glared at Kirika.

"No, but thank you! We were in a hurry anyway, for the gondolas," said Tsuki, beaming.

"Oh," blurted Kirika. "They're just down two more streets, then take a right."

Rhain smiled for once. "Oh, wow. Thanks! And nice place!"

They waved and walked out.

When the door slammed closed, Mireille looked over to Kirika. "You calling me creepy, too?" she growled, feeling threatened.

"So you read my mind," said Kirika, smiling, something Mireille needed to get used to. "I don't think we're Noir. I just think we know each other so well."

"And you thought the same thing?" added Mireille.

Kirika looked at the door. "Yes, there is something odd about them. I can't put my finger on it."

They stood in silence, neglecting their bags. Finally, Mireille chortled, "Maybe . . . it's because we don't have to kill them."

Kirika frowned at the dark humor. "That's not funny."

Mireille shrugged. "Hey. Get used to it. You're going to be living with this clown for who knows how long."

Kirika wanted to smile at such comforting, foreign, yet familiar words. However, as Mireille put away their things, Kirika couldn't help but look out the window. She watched after Tsuki and Rhain melting in the crowd so easily, wondering what life would have been like before Noir—even after Noir. As Mireille put it: _What now?_


	2. Chapter 2: Mundane

Chapter 2

Mundane

Rhain and Tsuki sat at the La Porte Café, a floating restaurant docked downtown. Tsuki was making fun of the way Mireille kept glaring at Rhain, but the American didn't find it amusing.

"It's perfect coincidence," chuckled Tsuki, stirring her orange juice. "How much we're alike."

"Who, us? Or Noir?" grumbled Rhain, gazing at the bleeding horizon over the river.

"All of us. It's fun, it's . . . _nice,"_ murmured Tsuki distractedly, searching her menu.

"You're so damn picky. Hurry up so we can continue what we came here for."

Tsuki nodded, affirming her choice. After they hailed their waitress, she became serious, folding her arms on the table. "So . . . what attracts two killers?"

"Artistic killers," emphasized Rhain in half-jest. "One in killing and painting, the other in . . . scratch that, Mireille's a dweeb."

Tsuki snorted. "Dweeb?"

"Yup, Mireille sucks pink socks."

"Ok?"

"It rhymed."

"That didn't rhyme."

"It's an American thing."

Tsuki laughed. "_I'm_ an American citizen, too, asshole." She took a breath. "In any case, Kirika has a fondness of cute, simple things like cats and art."

"And Dweeb loves shopping, makeup, and boys," jested Rhain in her own lost world of grins and evil thoughts.

"She could care less about boys. C'mon, you're so hyper! Be serious! We need something that attracts both. Something they can do together, something they can relate to. Um, what combines art and shopping?"

"Nothing."

They both cackled with laughter. "Damn, and we call ourselves professionals at what we do," said Rhain, playing with the sunflower in its vase at the center of their table.

Tsuki snapped her fingers, as if beckoning to a horse. "Wait! A fair!"

"Ooh-la-la, I _love_ fairs!"

"Not for _you_! For them!"

Rhain laughed in defeat. "Okay, okay. But what exactly are we going to do? I am not in the mood to do concession stands or be the 'Drown the Clown' kind of person. Both will just get me hyper."

"Hm, maybe we could be the entertainment," proposed Tsuki. "We could sing."

"I'm sorry, Tsuki, but you suck."

"What do _you_ propose, then, Ms. Congeniality?"

Rhain grinned deviously. "Something for _you_, actually."

With her elbow propped on the pool table, chin against palm, Mireille watched Kirika. Her partner leaned against the windowsill. Again. She knew she was thinking about Tsuki and Rhain. They weren't the kind to easily forget.

However, her main concern right now was finding something for them to do. Granted, they had all the right—and the time in the world—to recover. They spent most days repairing the apartment from the bullets, sitting in the apartment, going out for meals, or walking around. Kirika bought her occasional paintings she adored from the street vendors, almost as if in dedication to that Milosh guy. Other than that, they were almost like an old couple.

Mireille didn't plan to age that fast. With Noir behind them, she wanted to take advantage of her youth.

Plus, listening to that ticking clock was reminiscent of the pocketwatch. She was fed up listening to time taunting her. Mireille looked around hoping to entertain herself, especially for Kirika's sake.

"There's not much to make you smile," stated Mireille, her brow wrinkling in thought.

"Sorry," said Kirika, locking eyes with her.

"No, no," said Mireille dramatically with a wave. "I don't expect you to entertain me. Not at all. I'm just trying to figure out a way to get you to smile, so that it becomes second nature. You're not your every-day teenager, I'll tell you that . . ."

Kirika felt a bruise. "I know. I hate that. To not be able to . . ."

"Kirika," interrupted Mireille. "Emotions are good to reserve, but you've got to remember to _use_ them, too. You're more mature than anyone could ever ask for out of any human being, but . . . just, be yourself."

"And who is that?" asked Kirika, more to herself.

Mireille got up from the pool table and joined Kirika. She looked out the window, trying to see from the girl's perspective. What did the world look like from someone who has known Noir all her life? Through the eyes of someone who murdered strangers on a stranger's command? Separating innocent children from their loving parents—a family that could have been hers? Mireille couldn't imagine. Sometimes, she tried not to. After all, they both practically shared the same memories. The same painful ones.

A biker rang his bell, slicing through a group of strollers just outside the apartment.

"Hey," began Mireille, "have you ever biked?"

Kirika watched the biker disappear from the window. "I can't remember the last time I did, even though it was common where I lived in Japan."

"I'm bored with walking and sitting. Let's go, shall we?"

Two tourists pedaled by, two friends riding their bikes, laughing and ranting side-by-side.

Mireille waited for a reaction from Kirika. "Well?"

Kirika saw the two friends, too. She stared with yearning, yet with fear, like a child afraid to beg their parents to buy a toy.

Mireille crossed her arms, exhaling. "This is difficult for me, too. I dunno what to do other than run and dodge hellfire. Sometimes . . . I just wish we got a contract, so we could actually do something that's been second nature to us. So please. Let's figure it out together, ok? We'll go to Uncle Claude's for any old bikes. If not, we'll just have to rent some."

There was a fairly old Carribean-blue bike in Uncle Claude's backyard. It leaned against the house wall by the porch, hidden by creeping vegetation. In his garage, Mireille scoured through cardboard boxes until she found two helmets. Another rusting bike, but still functional, seemed to wait for Kirika in a corner of the garage.

Kirika waited for Mireille, who glanced at the greenhouse where she shot her uncle. Kirika reluctantly looked back to their taxi, just in case the Soldats were around, the ones who ordered Uncle Claude against Mireille. Strangely enough, the Corsican didn't seem threatened on the private estate. It appeared the Soldats were giving them a breather, or they didn't care about Uncle Claude's death. That's what made Kirika uneasy, though.

They returned the two bikes to the apartment in the back of the taxi without complaint from the driver. They dusted and rinsed the bikes, clearing the helmets of cobwebs.

Finally, out on the street, they tested their new hobby.

"C'mon," urged Mireille, tossing Kirika bike gloves. "And be safe while you're at it."

The Japanese strapped on her yellow helmet, then awkwardly hopped onto her bike. It was red, which would have matched Mireille better, however, it was too small for the other woman. While Mireille biked around Kirika in circles, watching her, Kirika desperately tried to hop on. The bike lopsided, nearly crashing her into a skinny tree on the sidewalk.

"You ok?" asked Mireille, stopping her bike.

"Yeah," said Kirika. "I can do it."

Relief washed over Mireille's face the moment Kirika hopped on and started pedaling. She circled Mireille, her expression glowing. Without further comment, they both rode off.

They passed two children on their mini tricycles, past a neighbor watering her plants on overlapping rock walls. They crossed the street, greeted by a family waving at them from behind the windows of a bakery. Kirika enjoyed the cool breeze, even the threatening speed she gained downhill. Behind her, her friend hollered for her to check her brakes before the hill got any steeper. Her brakes tested fine, encouraging her to loosen up . . . and _fly_.

Oh wait, she hit a bump in the patterned cobbles.

"Kirika, BRAKES!" shouted Mireille, stopping.

She watched, jaw dropped, as the girl went flying. It was like watching someone arch beautifully into a dive. Right into an intersection. A car screeched to a stop; people yelped, anticipating an accident. But Kirika landed on her feet, yet clumsily, breaking the impact with another awkward roll. Another car barely swerved around her.

A man from the sidewalk rushed over to her. "Are you ok, miss?"

Mireille watched from afar, perched atop the hill; her heart fluttered.

In the distance, Kirika's form stood up with ease, readjusting her helmet. More people swarmed her, a confusion of awe and concern. The two drivers got out of their cars, cursing, standing there at their doors.

For some reason, Kirika's stunt made Mirelle tense at the attention it drew. As she watched Kirika smile apologetically to those around her, Mireille's eyes darted everywhere. She looked for that person standing out of place. That person peeking at the corner of his eye. The ones that always slipped off into an alley or into a car.

_Silly me,_ she thought. _We're done with that._

The protests and murmurs lingered. Someone insisted Kirika see an ambulance, but she shook her head, seemingly unaffected. Another moment passed, until the crowd dispersed. Someone handed her bike back, which was unscathed.

Mireille walked her bike down the hill to meet Kirika at the corner. "You ok?" she asked, shaking her head hopelessly. Her heart thundered from all that adrenaline. "You should be more careful."

There was a hint of a glare in Kirika's eyes. Mireille searched them, but they softened. "_You_ aren't wearing a helmet, though," murmured Kirika, almost afraid to say it.

Mireille looked away. "_I'm_ careful, though."

Silence.

The blonde smiled weakly. "You sure you're okay?" Mireille eyed the girl's condition to ensure she wasn't hiding any injuries from her.

"It's nice to know this world isn't so bad," said Kirika, smiling back at the witnesses.

The sunny day felt weird to them, but Mireille accepted it. "Alright, let's go," she said, avoiding the staring bystanders.

_These peoples' mundane world has been split open. I wish I could relate . . ._

"There's a lot of this world we don't understand yet," she called to Kirika, as they rode on. "Places to see, things to do . . ."

They continued to weave through the Paris streets, exploring parks, rivers, bridges, and shopping areas. Though Kirika didn't say much, Mireille watched whatever places caught her attention. Her gaze flitted to certain plazas for painting, or certain art stores. The occasional feral cats dashed in front of them, thwarting Kirika from the bike path. Mireille feared multiple car accidents in their near future, but Kirika stayed close, smiling at her whenever they rode side by side.

They took a break by the river on a network of bike paths and pockets of manicured grass. While Kirika studied places for painting, Mireille watched their bikes. She lay across the grass, trying to patiently ignore the nearby group of friends throwing their Frisbee. She wanted to enjoy this day. It wasn't much, but it was unlike any other day.

When they returned to the apartment, Mireille checked her PO box. She was glad to not have found anything that would pull them from everything they've worked so hard on. They both dragged their bikes up the stairs to their floor, wheeling them into the apartment, settled against the wall at the crown of their bed.

"So, what'd you think?" asked Mireille, settling their bikes against the wall at the crown of their bed.

Kirika unbuckled her helmet, shaking her dark mop of hair. "It was fun." She beamed at Mireille, hoping her gratitude showed.

Mireille grinned, picking a strand of hair from Kirika's eyes. "You need a haircut. I'll make an appointment with Paulette. But first, I need to go to the bathroom."

Kirika turned her attention back to their apartment. She surveyed their home; her skin tingled with the comfort of a place to return to. Her senses felt revived from being outside, pleasantly at peace. She wondered long they could keep this up, returning to the mundane, but learning to love it? After everything they've been through together, it was hard to determine what was normal and what wasn't. How to blend them together, how to enjoy the mundane with excitement . . .

Kirika glimpsed the Bouquet photo and frowned.

When Mireille walked out of the bathroom, she followed Kirika's gaze.

"We have mail," said Kirika; Mireille glared at the envelope in Kirika's hands. "It's a contract."


	3. Chapter 3: Mirrors

Chapter 3

Mirrors

"There's our target," murmured Mireille, circling an item she wanted from her daily subscription to _Femme Fatale_ _Magazine_.

They sat at the window counter inside a coffee shop. Kirika sipped her coffee, then dazed off into the crowd outside. She casually looked around, watching pedestrians stroll by. Her gaze brushed over a middle-aged man with greased, sandy hair and faded side-burns. He ambled around the flea market across the street, in the comfort of his brown turtleneck sweater and casual jeans. Kirika continued to look at other people.

Mireille peeked from behind her shades. "Seems . . . typical. 'Grey' Varrichione. Corporate scumbag. Goes by his underworld alias, 'V'. It's a simple job really: he's here on business and he's staying in Paradise Suite just a few blocks from here. V nearly has a whole floor to himself so you can bet there will be some guards with him."

Mireille marked a pair of sandals in her magazine with a pencil. "Apart from a few under-skilled bodyguards, this job is going to be fairly routine . . ."

"Mireille."

The Corsican lifted her cup to her lips, but paused there. "I know." She felt the same way as Kirika.

So the darkness still wouldn't give them up.

"Our black daily bread . . ." murmured Kirika, distraught.

"He isn't as deserving of fate as most of our clients, but he still has it coming. Sometimes, for your sake, I wouldn't read too much into their pasts. It'll save you the remorse." Mireille offered a weak smile. "Well, on the brighter side, at least we get some excitement. Paris is not really exhilarating. So, why don't we go get some ice cream or something, anything to take your mind off this? I really don't like to see you upset, although, it's hard to tell if you are or not—."

"I was fine with what we've been doing, all that peace and quiet," said Kirika, frowning. She glared at V, as if it was his fault.

Mireille said softly, "Don't give us away. He could sense us—if not him, he has guards doing it for him."

Kirika didn't seem to care. "No more . . ."

Mireille didn't want to say this, but she had to. "It's part of our nature. Probably the first thing we learned, and it'll be the last thing we'll learn. We don't die so easily without a fight, and that'll include killing. I'm sorry. I can't change that. Even for you."

Her attention lowered to Kirika's hands in her lap. For a second, she though it would help to hold them, but decided against it. They have done this countless times, so there was no need for comfort. Just rip the Band-Aid off.

Mireille gave another of her infamous sighs. She stood up, quickly tucked the magazine into her pocket, and flicked her hair off her shoulders before gesturing Kirika to join her.

"We've got three days," she said stringently. "But, for now, let's relax. As for you, get yourself ice cream or something, and meet me back here around noon."

Kirika didn't know why Mireille thought of ice cream. It insulted her for some reason, as if Mireille suddenly thought her a child.

"And you?" asked Kirika.

"I got matters to settle with." Mireille walked out the glass door. To ensure the blonde's safety, Kirika switched her attention between V and Mireille. After a minute, she walked out, urging herself to not look after Mireille.

Kirika froze.

She looked up from her ice cream as a cat walked by. It came just around the corner from the same coffee shop. She stayed put, leaning against the corner wall of the outside of the building.

The feline paced around her, looking up at her or others walking by. A mother and her two little daughters hurried by. The little girls jumped out excitedly to pet it, but it darted from their reach. They tried again, but their mother pulled them along.

Kirika marveled at the skittish cat. It looked up at an old man reading his newspaper on a bench. Then, it leaped onto the trashcan next to him. It hung on the edge, hind legs pressed against the trashcan, sniffing inside.

Then, two boys hurried by, booming with laughter, startling the cat. It shot up into the air, upside-down and backwards, slashing at them. The lads ran away excitedly, oblivious to its reaction. The black furball fell into the trashcan.

Kirika looked around, wondering if anyone saw. The old man reading his paper looked over but didn't seem to know where the noise came from. The trashcan continued to rattle as the cat yowled inside. Kirika walked over and peeked inside, careful not to spill her ice cream.

At an angle, lemon-green eyes glowed in the trashcan. The creature mewed at her. She reached down to scoop it up, but it sprung up on its own. It dodged her, landing on the ground, then scuttled away before looking back at her.

Kirika paused as to not frighten to it. The cat looked up at her, or her ice cream, she couldn't tell. Then, a bulb of her vanilla dripped onto the ground. The cat mewed, creeping closer, then licked the drop—allowing Kirika to scoop it up.

"Don't tell me . . ." said a familiar voice behind her.

It was Mireille, with a hand on her hip as she scowled at the cat. "You're not really thinking . . ." finished Mireille, sighing.

Kirika said nothing, trying to restrain the squirming cat.

"TELL ME, you're not really?" repeated Mireille. She stepped up, but the cat hissed. She gave a flat expression. "Of _course_."

Kirika looked down adoringly at the cat in her arms. "She fell in the trashcan."

Mireille pinched her nose. "So that's what that was. I'm sorry, but we can't take it back home. It smells, it has germs, and it belongs in the wild."

Kirika stroked its head. It wriggled, pausing once in a while to look around.

"Look, it doesn't want to be domesticated," said Mireille pointedly. "Beasts will stay beasts—." She stopped herself, but Kirika's eyes already dropped to the ground. She released the cat, which bound away through the crowd.

Mireille cursed to herself: _God DAMMIT, you asshole!_ "Kirika . . . I didn't mean it like that," she stammered—but she shut her mouth.

Her friend watched after the cat as it prowled the feet of pedestrians. Noir stood there for a good bit, Mireille watching her, Kirika staring into the crowd.

"C'mon, the earth is too much," said Mireille, frowning at their surroundings.

"Where we going?"

"I was thinking the water . . ." murmured Mireille, looking up at the sky. "It's the closest to the sky we'll ever get, when the reflection is just right. It's the only mirror I'd rather look into."

It was these words that, for once, drew Kirika's thoughts from the cat. "What do you mean?"

"I dunno . . . I've found it hard to look at myself in the mirror lately," said Mireille, binding a blonde string of hair around her finger. "Mirrors are man's creation. Water, though . . . I feel better looking at it. It always has that natural healing power of making the world look better than it really is."

Kirika thought about it, then looked into Mireille's eyes. "That sounds like me when I'm looking out the window."

Mireille stifled a giggle. "Yeah. Well, c'mon, let's go touch the sky."

The Japanese followed her friend, smiling marveling at her way with words today.

The two of them made it a habit to bike to places within forty-five minutes of the apartment. Any longer than that, and they'd take Mireille's moped or a taxi, but Kirika reminded her of their new goals. So they got their exercise, making their way to a canal.

There, Mireille showed Kirika a motorboat. It was Uncle Claude's; she didn't say anything about it regarding him, though.

Its engine gurgled softly, as it glided them out toward the center of the canal. While Mireille steered, Kirika leaned over the side to watch the deformed pockets of colorful light; they seemed to bob next to their boat.

"The sky . . ." began Kirika, looking down at the water. "It's so clear."

Her partner smiled. "It's nice, huh?"

Kirika parted the water with her hand, slicing through it like cake. "Yes. For once, I don't mind looking at the person staring back. It doesn't feel fake."

Under the midday heat, they felt a breath of wind. It defined layers of their hair and cooled their skin. The world as they saw it, right there, felt refreshed, new, clean. How simple and clean.

They passed docks and houses, an old man fishing on a wall over the water, group of friends cackling with laughter on their front yard, a woman waiting for her husband in their motorboat. Just watching the world drift by, without wondering who was going to kill them or who to kill, brought them peace.

They floated past another pair in their boat, two men who looked a bit older than Mireille. They waved at Mireille, smiling chivalrously. Kirika watched her friend out of the corner of her eye, wondering if the woman would ever take advantage of such things. What kind of man would she introduce her to? Would he ever match such a woman, or make Mireille truly happy?

That flicker of a thought dampened her mood: would that change their relationship they fought and nearly died for? Would they have to split up from there?

"Mireille."

"What is it?" Mireille had brought them to a stop in the more open waters. Here, she decided to switch off the motor.

"Will we stay like this forever?"

"I plan to."

Such words, without hesitation, burned right into Kirika's soul. Yet, at the same time, she turned to look at Mireille eagerly. The French returned the stare, tilting her head with a curious "hm?"

_We won't, will we?_ thought Kirika, casually looking back at their reflections. They were as clear looking through glass. She watched a school of fish, a giant shape that warped wherever they darted. A crab patrolled the ground below them, its bigger claw snapping out airily. And next to it, was Mireille's reflection. Its eyes remained on Kirika.

"Kirika?" asked Mireille curiously.

If she could get Mireille to say it like that, beckoning, for the rest of their lives, that was enough for Kirika. It was that simple. They could make their lives _that_ simple. Kirika couldn't help herself as she stood up and spread her arms to the wind out in the open waters.

"If you fall in, I won't get you," said Mireille from behind, but Kirika knew she was jesting.

But when Kirika swayed at the jostling currents, Mireille leaned in as if expecting the latter to fall. Kirika nearly stumbled backwards, but she caught herself. There was awkward silence as they waited out the sudden breeze and currents, until Kirika looked at Mireille and smiled adventurously, as if they were on a rollercoaster ride. It was weird to think this was the True Noir, a girl who couldn't use her assassin reflexes to catch herself in a rocking boat.

Mireille raised an eyebrow. _That girl always knows how to smile at the smallest things._

Although Kirika had caught herself from hitting the back of her head, she decided to lay back. Her rear sunk into the belly of the boat, on its naked, wet floor—then she leaned her head back onto the plank seat Mireille sat on, and closed her eyes, her dark hair tickling Mireille's legs.

Mireille shuddered. A light gasp. She couldn't respond. She went back to the days she'd ever shared such intimate moments: crying into her mother's lap, and that last hug she shared with Uncle Claude. What was left of her family. The last fragment of what she knew was love.

This memory suddenly triggered unrestrained tears. The French held her breath. The memories, the touch, the feeling, the dark past altogether were painful, good and bad. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this mesh of emotions.

And next to her was the cause of these painful memories.

Mireille didn't know how to feel—all she could feel and remember were the years of darkness that stole her from a real childhood.

And next to her was the cause of those painful memories.

But was it really Kirika's fault?

Because next to her was a plain Japanese girl. A friend. Someone, like anyone else, like Mireille, who just wanted peace. Was that much to ask for? Companionship? Understanding? Peace?

Love?

What a mystery. If this was the definition of love, then so be it. Right? Did she want more? To find a man who would love her and wash away all the pain others familiar to her have scarred her with? Or to be content with this: a bond she knew would never be torn.

Just then, the boat jerked; something bumped it from below. Mireille gasped, startled. Both of them looked around themselves—but they were then thrust sideways, right into the water, with a giant SLAP!

It felt as though they've been vacuumed, then spat out, as they resurfaced, gasping for breath, coughing. The cold rush was shocking, but those seconds of surprise washed away as they realized how nice the water was.

Mireille wiped her face, looking to Kirika, whose small head bobbed atop the surface. She looked back, just as confused.

Someone broke from the water next to them. "WOO!" she gasped, waving something round.

Mireille roared, "YOU!"

It was Rhain. When she realized Mireille and Kirika were there beside her, she leaned away. "Uhhh . . ."

"RHAIN!" repeated Mireille, thrashing her arms in the water to stay afloat or throttle the girl, Kirika couldn't tell.

Rhain turned to Kirika, beaming with realization. "Oh, I remember you. Hi!" She waved at her. When she put her hand down, she accidentally splashed Mireille in the eyes.

Kirika could have sworn her friend was determined to drown Rhain—but someone else resurfaced. It was Tsuki, her long braid curving in the water like a snake. She wiped her eyes, then blinked when she recognized Mireille and Kirika.

"Hey, haven't we met before?" she said, pointing at Noir with her hand shaped into a gun-like point. Before the duo could respond, Rhain interrupted, waving her treasure.

"Lookee here, Tsuki! Another one!" exclaimed Rhain, wiping mud and water from the watch.

Noir stared. It was a pocketwatch.

It was smaller, though—round, gold, and rusty, lacking an intricate cover. However, when they watched Rhain snap it open, its broken face turned out to be heart-shaped—

"Wait," blurted Mireille, shaking her head to focus. "What _are_ you doing here?"

"Chill, bitch," said Rhain, taken aback. She raised the old pocketwatch. "We collect antiques. There's this famous antique shop nearby that sells pocketwatches or locks with keys. People like to buy them—usually couples—and attach them to this set of railings. It overlooks this part of the canal. Over there."

She pointed to an aging wall that jutted out over the canal. It was fenced in by railings, covered in chains, locks, or chained pocketwatches. Each were tied or chained to the individual bars.

"Then they throw the keys into these waters," added Tsuki, grinning. "To challenge others to steal their hearts. Other morons, who see their love as a sealed deal, toss their antiques _with_ the keys in these waters. To be lost to the world."

"That's it?" snapped Mireille, kicking her legs underwater to stay up. "You TOSSED our boat just for some stupid street tradition!"

"I was going to drown if I didn't!" said Rhain defensively. "I was trying to resurface, but your boat was in the way. My adrenaline made me push you off. It's amazing what _strength_ the human body is capable of in life-and-death crises—!"

Mireille roared, pounding the water around her. Her tantrum was over in split, though, as she waded back to their overturned boat. She slumped herself over its hull to catch her breath. Kirika had never seen anything funnier. For some reason, she enjoyed this side of Mireille, the side that couldn't control things, the side that reacted naturally yet interestingly to such trivial things in life, like getting dumped into the water.

Back on shore, all four wrenched their clothing of water. As Mireille clenched her rope of hair, leaning to one side, she glared.

"Why are you here anyway?" she growled.

"Hey, these are public waters, ya know," retorted Rhain, pointing around them. On either side of them, groups of people were perched up on cement walls a few feet high. Some kids leaped from their perches into the shallow waters, while others simply chatted among themselves.

"It's off-limits to swimming," retorted Mireille.

"Like anyone listens to rules these days," replied Rhain.

"I'm sorry that Rhain accidentally tipped your boat," said Tsuki, frowning wide.

"Oh, no, she just bucked us into the air like a bull, that's all," said Mireille, squeezing her hair then flapping it out as if to release it. Water sprayed Tsuki and Rhain, who complained.

Mireille give her dagger stare. "Why are you here? I find this odd that we're meeting you again."

"At least we agree on something," grumbled Rhain, drying herself with the towels they brought along. "Here," she offered, throwing the towel at Mireille, draping her whole head from sight.

Tsuki and Kirika, who just dragged the motorboat onto the grass, giggled. Mireille shot them a glare, then tilted her head purposely to indicate Noir's departure.

Tsuki stepped forward. "Would you like us to push your boat for you?"

"No thank you," said Mireille. "We'll go find a public restroom and hope their hand dryers will fix our wet clothes."

Rhain raised an eyebrow. "That works?"

Kirika looked at Mireille strangely. "In the public bathroom?"

Her friend sighed. "If you're uncomfortable stripping in a women's bathroom, then just stay in the stalls and I'll dry your clothes for you."

"We'll help," insisted Tsuki, throwing an apologetic glance. "It's the least we can do. You can stay in the stalls, we'll dry your clothes."

"We?" said Rhain, who faked a smile when Tsuki glared at her. "Joy, joy!"

"Can I hurt you?" muttered Tsuki.

"Sorry, I'm off limits—ah," said Rhain, as Tsuki slapped her arm.

Before Mireille could kindly return Rhain's offer, Kirika bowed to Tsuki. "Thank you."

Tsuki smiled awkwardly. "Ya know, we don't always have to bow."

"Kirika," called Mireille, who had already walked ahead, looking in all directions for any hint of a public restroom. When the other three stepped up to join her, she nearly scowled her new acquaintances.

"Are you going to change, too?" she queried, scanning Tsuki and Rhain's swimming suits, their towels wrapped around their waists like skirts.

Tsuki tightened the knot on the side of her red bikini. Her V-necked top had straps buckled in gold chains. "Our hotel's nearby. We didn't bring a change of clothes. Anyway, let's worry about you, the ones without a change of clothes or swimming suits. We'll walk you . . ."

Tsuki led the way, as Rhain chuckled, "Yeah, after all, I'm sure you shop a lot to give yourself enough practice."

Noir followed in silence. Kirika looked up at Mireille, who closed her eyes as if to shut out any signs of irritation.

It didn't take long for them to find a public restroom thanks to Tsuki's memory. Inside, Noir hid behind bathroom stalls, throwing their soaked clothes to their new acquaintances. From behind doors, they listened to the blasting hand dryers. It was like listening to lawn mowers, powerful and loud.

They suddenly heard Rhain squeal with delight. Kirika looked up as a hand flashed up a pair of red lacy bras over Mireille's door.

"Nice pair! Where'd you get them?" hollered Rhain over the roar of Tsuki drying Kirika's clothes.

Mireille's roar increased to an indignant shriek, as she snatched the bras from sight. "Damn tourists . . ." she hissed.

It took a good half an hour to dry their articles of clothing. It was Mireille's spaghetti-strapped purple tanktop, blue jeans, and sandals, with Kirika' s blue jean jacket over a simple red T-shirt and jean shorts.

When they finished, they stood outside the public restroom to part ways. Noir planned to head back to their motorboat, Tsuki and Rhain to their hotel to review their canal treasures.

Rhain feigned a smile. "Take care, despite that I dislike you. Not hate, just dislike—." Tsuki elbowed Rhain hard in the side. "_Gurk_—take care."

"Thanks for the clothes," said Mireille, budging a smile at Tsuki, and twitching an attempt at Rhain.

The two tourists waved and turned around, Rhain slinging her damp towel over her shoulder, revealing her matching blue swimming suit.

Mireille exhaled, aiming her finger after the two as if she were to shoot them. "I swear . . ." she muttered. Next to her, Kirika made a soft sound, jogging Mireille's attention. Mireille withdrew her hand, and couldn't help but smile to herself. She walked away back toward the canal. Kirika stared after her quizzically.

Mireille turned around, raising an eyebrow at Kirika with a hand on her hip. Despite the harsh stature, her eyes reflected the skies blushing with a sunset glow. Obliviously, she looked up at that eclipse-like heart that gave her a throbbing sensation.

She finally beckoned. "Kirika." It wasn't an invitation, but a calling. Kirika's heart swelled at the warm light giving Mireille an angelic backlit.

"Kirika," repeated Mireille in a soft, dazed tone, "how many shadows do you see?"

Kirika's eyes dropped to the paved sidewalk: her own shadow stretched out and met with Mireille's.

"Noir . . ." whispered Kirika, smiling grimly. "It is a name for two."

Mireille froze, feeling their warm atmosphere melting.

It was a harsh reminder that, for only one day, they could celebrate their togetherness—then return to the teamwork they always knew. Against Grey Varrichione.

But they would not have it. Kirika stared Mireille in the eye, nodding genuinely and almost comfortingly. She then trotted after her friend, joining her side, their shadows dancing together.

"I invite you to continue your elegant impertinence," said Tsuki, collapsed on their hotel bed.

"I'm sorry, but that kind of attitude is just asking for a good knock to the boob!" snarled Rhain, cursing. "That piece of shit doesn't know what's hittin' her."

"Ohmygod, they DON'T KNOW THAT!" roared Tsuki. "Save the attitude for the real heat, sis!"

Rhain sighed, peering into their refrigerator. "So. What now?"

Tsuki shrugged, stretching. "What else is there? Noir thinks they have signed a real contract. And Varrichione fears he's actually in danger for sanctioning an innocent family after mistaking their association with an enemy . . ."

"Remind me again why we're doing this?" muttered Rhain, sucking on a spoonful of yogurt.

"Why else?" said Tsuki solemnly. "For them."


	4. Chapter 4: Something Deep

Chapter 4

Something Deep

Kirika often got up before Mireille. In and out of sleep, Mireille would hear the padded shuffling of feet as Kirika made herself tea. Then the girl would water their plant—now replaced, but still the same kind of plant—and would sit on top of the pool table. Then, just before Mireille woke up at her usual time, Kirika would make them breakfast. The mornings clattered with pans, glasses clinking, and the smell of pancakes, bacon, toast or sometimes waffles.

The noise in the kitchen stopped. Mireille heard footsteps.

"I've made breakfast," said Kirika softly yet cheerfully.

Mireille sat up, then squinted in confusion at the tray held in front of her. Kirika gingerly placed her breakfast-in-bed on her lap until Mireille grabbed the handles to assure she got it.

"I was going to say, 'as usual', but you got me," quipped Mireille, eying the sunny-side up eggs grinning at her with a pair of bacon. There was also stuffed French toast, with a bonus glass vase of flowers; the explosion of colors added something to their apartment.

Mireille murmured, "Thank you." The other girl beamed, triggering a smile from Mireille.

She looked over to the pool table, spying the brightness of white eggs and stiff bacon with tea. Kirika grabbed the teapot screeching from the oven top and poured some into a small vintage cup. She added it to Mireille's tray.

"Mhm . . . what tea is this?" asked Mirelle, startled at the soft spice.

"It's the one from the other day when we went shopping in the plaza."

"I forgot about these."

Kirika beamed. "We haven't opened them up yet since we've been biking around. Anyway, I hope you like it."

Mireille responded by dipping the French toast into the tea and taking a bite. She savored the flavor, eyes closed. Satisfied, Kirika went over to turn their TV on and hushed it to a low volume. They had bought it in the hopes of entertainment or a better way of keeping on eye on targets back in the earlier days, but hadn't really used it—until now, with the Japanese constantly changing the channel.

"There's nothing good on," complained Kirika.

She sensed eyes on her and turned her head. Mireille was smiling playfully.

"Well. Didn't know our simpleton had a high demand for entertainment," chuckled Mirelle, as she chewed on her scrambled eggs.

Kirika stared, remote control held straight out, unsure how to react.

"Nothing . . ." Mireille lowered her eyes to her breakfast, hiding the nudge of a smile. "It was just . . . heh, nothing."

Kirika twitched a weak smile, and continued to switch through the channels. When she came upon a commercial for cat food, she couldn't help but stare with the most attention and affection Mireille's ever seen.

Mireille swallowed. "Speaking of cute . . ." she mumbled in a flat tone. She then glanced at the little clock on top of the TV and got out bed, stuffing her mouth with scrambled eggs and nearly choking as she downed her tea.

Kirika watched her quizzically. "What is it?"

"Just an errand," said Mireille calmly. Her hastened walk to the closet betrayed her smile, as she threw on her default sleeveless, red turtleneck shirt, and leathered skirt and boots.

"I'll be back," she said, flashing Kirika the quickest yet genuine smile before the door closed on her. Disappointment anchored Kirika's heart—then, Mireille quickly opened the door again, declaring, "The food was great, thank you!"

Kirika stared at the door, then sat down at the pool table. She nibbled on her scrambled eggs, but found herself chewing it rather mechanically. She looked at the clock, then started clearing the table with a ruptured heart.

However, she left the dishes in the sink and leaned out the window, awaiting Mireille's safe and quick return. A good hour passed by, in which Kirika passed the time switching channels, making the bed, and cleaning the dishes from breakfast.

The door opened, but Kirika didn't bother turning her head. She always knew it would be Mireille: squeaky, soft, and lazy footfalls, yet always walking with a dignified edge. Like a true Bouquet heiress.

This time, it was unfamiliar. So featherlike, so weightless.

Kirika turned around just in time to see a black cat stroll in. The very tip of its tail flicked in certain directions, as if feeling its surroundings. Eyes wide and curious. Finally, it paced around casually, occasionally stopping under furniture to look around warily.

"Hm, I wonder if it remembers you?" said Mireille, setting mail down on the pool table.

Kirika couldn't help but look at Mireille, not the cat.

Mireille sniffed, annoyed. "Huh, I even wonder if I kidnapped the wrong one . . ." She tried to pick up the cat from behind, but it mewed, slipping out her grasp awkwardly, like a seal clumsily sliding into water. "Unpleasant flea-bag . . ."

"Mireille . . ." began Kirika.

Mirielle tried picking up the cat again, but it disappeared behind their red sofa. "Damn. Either it hates me and you, or hates me and doesn't remember you, or hates me and is just ignoring you at the moment."

"Mireille—," attempted Kirika, but Mireille interrupted.

"I'd grab it before it starts scratching up my place."

Kirika didn't have as much luck as Mireille. After a good five minutes of them trying to herd it out, Mireille finally went over to the kitchen to finish up from breakfast. Meanwhile, Kirika sat there at the edge of their sofa, staring where Mireille disappeared into the kitchen. She struggled what to say in gratitude, but felt her breath lodged in her throat. She migrated to the pool table and leaned against it. She glimpsed the pile of mail but decided to ignore it, just as something soft brushed dangling hand by her side.

Kirika froze and looked down, allowing the cat to continue its massage. She slowly moved her hand. It sniffed it, tickling her with its whiskers. She stroked from its skull down its spine, to which the cat arched with pleasure. All the while, the cat pressed its wet nose into her palm.

Mireille hollered from the kitchen: "I brought in mail, why don't you check it?"

Kirika reluctantly turned from the cat, leafing through pink, blue, or general white envelopes. At the bottom, however, was mail addressed to her.

It said "Kirika".

With her thumb, she carved open the flap. She slowly pulled out what looked like a gift card to a pet store.

"I didn't know what you'd want," said Mireille, who walked back out drying her hands with a kitchen towel.

"Mireille . . . I . . ."

"Now hold on," interrupted Mireille, pointing a finger at the cat, which kept its distance from her. "There are rules with it. Now, I don't know shit about cats—but you feed it, you clean it, you pay for any damage, and you most certainly take care of its litter box—."

"It's a she," said Kirika.

Pause. "Whatever."

"Thank you, Mireille."

_"And,"_ added Mireille quickly, with a firm stare, "no more frowning out the window. I hope she distracts you from such things."

Kirika held Mireillle's gaze, stepped forward, and hugged her. It was soft and almost careful, as if she was afraid to hurt her. The older woman froze, with a soft gasp. Mireille held her breath, unsure how to respond.

Mireille whispered, "Kirika . . ."

"Yes . . .?"

"Um . . . Never mind." Mireille didn't necessarily wrap her arms around the Japanese and squeezed back—rather, she put her hands on Kirika's back. Close enough. Kirika was content with that. It was better than their last hug, the one after Chloe's death, when Mireille hugged a gun across Kirika's chest.

Yes, it was definitely better than that.

They withdrew from the embrace, Kirika worshipping Mireille with a glowing expression. The Corsican looked away from those eyes that haunted her ever since they met; she watched the cat instead. It was scaling along the walls of the interior, as if avoiding lava in the middle of the room.

Kirika followed her gaze, asking, "So that's what you were doing, hm?"

"It was just a bonus afterthought," said Mireille. Kirika looked at her, only to find Mireille holding up a giftbox in front of her. "Here."

Kirika's heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. Breathless, she accepted the gift. It a simple white box wrapped in a silky, clear bow. Just the sight of it made her not want to open it, to cherish this moment. She untied it. It was a picture of Mireille and Kirika sitting outside at a small restaurant.

Confused, Kirika stared. There was something off about it. They looked normal, their attention to their food, or in Mireille's case, her usual magazines she brought along. Both wore their favorite clothes. Kirika's white hoodie, blue tanktop, navy-blue skirt, and pink clogs; Mireille's hot-red turtleneck shirt, and leathered skirt and boots.

However, in the lower corner of the frame, Kirika noticed what looked like a blurry shot of bush.

Mireille almost chuckled. "I know it's strange, but . . . it was the best I could do. After all, we never took any photos of us together."

Kirika was confused.

Mireille hesitated. "Someone was taking photos of us. Apparently. We've always been targets, though. Anyway, I tracked him down before our bounty became viral, along with the photos. I, um . . ."

Kirika stared at her. "You killed him?"

"There's more," muttered Mireille, growing serious. "He was working for Varrichone."

Silence.

"Huh, I thought it was funny," said Mireille, frowning, rubbing the nape of her neck. She flung out tangled locks of hair.

"You killed one of Varrichone's, and took the photo to frame it. For me?" asked Kirika, gaping.

"I wasn't planning on doing it. But when I saw the photo, I thought, why not?"

Kirika could not tell how to react. She looked at the beautiful photo—the only—of both of them enjoying a peaceful afternoon. It _was_ nice. It made her happy, and yet the way it came to be was a little disturbing.

Mireille folded her arms. "You're right. I should have just bought a camera. It was a stupid idea."

It had been a _very_ strange idea, but Kirika didn't say anything. "We're in Paris. Anything goes as art," said Kirika, shrugging.

Mireille observed her. The girl's stone expression made her nervous for some reason. Suddenly, Mireille felt very stupid.

"Thank you, Mireille," said Kirika. She walked over and put it next to the Bouquet family picture. Then, stepped back.

"I wonder . . . if we would've been good friends," murmured Mireille, admiring the two frames with Kirika.

"Mireille," said Kirika, earning a concerned expression from the latter. "Doesn't it disturb you that . . . Varrichione knows about us?"

"I'm not worried," boasted Mireille, folding her arms. She grinned. "Nothing new. We are Noir, aren't we?"

Normally, this would bother Kirika, but for some reason she smiled. Mireille's gifts just were too overwhelming. The more she thought about it, the more she realized: so _what_ if the enemies know where they are? They have living proof, a couple of photos— even if through enemy cameras—that Noir was still alive. They were together, stronger than ever, because of their bond. Not their weapons, not their training, not their dark histories. Just because of _them_.

Mireille noted the smile on Kirika's face. She sighed with relief, then glanced at the TV. It had been running while Kirika awaited her return, to wash out the silence of loneliness. On the screen was advertising for a local fair. Kirika looked at the monitor, too.

"Um, reminder, I just got you a gift card and a cat," growled Mireille.

"It's something different from all that biking," said Kirika casually.

"You don't have any money. Why else would I buy things for you?" Mireille paused. She couldn't believe her heart was melting at Kirika looking at her—for heaven's _sake_, the girl was just _looking_ at her, and yet it already tore Mireille apart. Maybe because she'd been on a roll with gifts, Mireille felt obliged to follow the saying "third times the charm".

Mireille gave a defeated expression. "That fair is an hour away . . ." she grumbled. She looked at Kirika, whose expression lit like light flooding a room.

"Ok, ok! You're like a child," exasperated Mireille.

Kirika beamed—no, _grinned_—and it was the first Mireille's ever seen.

When they reached the fair, there was already quite the line for tickets. Annoyed, Mireile grunted, and pulled out a magazine. Kirika stood there beside her.

The fair took place in a plaza, taking over a nearby park next to a wide river. Vendors stood in front the daily stores on the streets, bustling with customers.

So much noise; the demands of children tugging their parents, the suffocation of love-dovey couples, the laughter and battlecries at the game stations . . . it was growing old on Mireille. She couldn't help but think back to the mountainous island of Corsica, and its overwhelming green, its red tiled rooftops and pinkish houses. The quiet, yet laborous streets. The last time she went, it was like walking through ruins of her ancient past. How haunting, and yet how close to home it felt.

She peeked up from her magazine, watching Kirika holding the cat. Why did the girl bring the cat to a crowded fair? Who knew. Mireille feared the feral would run away in such a crowd.

"What's her name?" Mireille asked curiously.

Kirika looked at her. "Mireille."

The Corsican blinked. "Hm? What?"

"No, Mireille."

"Speak French, Kirika."

"_Her_ name is Mireille."

Pause. ". . . OH . . ."

She couldn't tell if it was sweet or unoriginal of Kirika. She studied the cat, which licked its paw and wiped its face with it. Mireille repeated the name to herself; the cat turned and looked at her, unblinking.

"But it's not her real name," murmured Kirika.

"Hm?"

"She had a name before now. I wonder what it was."

"Huh?"

"I'm giving her a lie. A fake name."

_She thinks she's a lie,_ thought Mireille, looking at both pet and owner. _Must be painful wondering who you were . . . not knowing . . ._

Mireille began to regret the cat.

It was finally their turn at the ticket booth. Mireille bought the tickets, then led them into a noisy world of colors—the diversity of people, local and tourist; the rippling or flashing glowing lights on vendors or merry-go-'rounds or the mini Ferris wheel for children. Mireille vaguely remembered such childhood leisures with Uncle Claude shortly after their exile from Corsica . . .

"Hey you, would you like a hug?" asked a muffled voice. Noir turned around, greeted in the face by a giant lobster. It was a costume, bobbing up and down on its feet, giant pincers waving around and nearly hitting passing people.

"We're fine," began Mireille, when the dancing lobster pointed at her.

"WHOA, hey, you!"

Mireille began walking away, but Kirika bothered to peer into the face behind the small screen. "Rhain?" she exclaimed.

_"Dammit,"_ grumbled Mireille, pausing in her tracks.

"What was that?" shouted Rhain.

Mireille whirled around, slapping on a fake smile. "I said, joy, it's Rhain!"

"And Tsuki!" A casually dressed girl in a loose roan hoodie and jean skirt. "We meet again! No way!"

"This is the third time if you haven't noticed," growled Mireille. She narrowed her blue eyes. "Three. Days. Consecutively."

"You calling us stalkers?" growled Rhain.

"I thought you were tourists," said Kirika, holding onto her cat. Tsuki immediately leaned down and startled scratching its ears despite its struggles.

"No, we live in Paris—just not from around here," said Tsuki, cooing at the cat.

"Huh," said Mireille coolly, glowering. "Why are you here? You _know_, why are you here, at the same place as we—?"

"LaCroix, Ramirez, quit slacking before I fire you!"

Everyone looked over at a forty-year-old lady smoking a cigarette. She whipped the cigarette out of her mouth, wrinkles defined every time she gave a grouchy mouth.

"Get back to work! Tsuki, your shift's about to start!"

Mireille and Kirika looked at the other two.

"Who are you?" asked Mireille.

"Volunteer work," said Tsuki, beaming.

"Like?"

"Don't—," began Rhain, but Tsuki already answered:

"Rhain's the fair lobster mascot, who walks around asking for hugs or waving at people like a cheerleader."

"Did you have to describe it so vulgarly?" whined Rhain, smacking Tsuki in the back of the head with a pincer—but Tsuki dodged, taunting her.

"While I'm," she declared, "in charge of the children's blow-up obstacle course."

Mireille cocked an eyebrow, smirking at Rhain. "Huh, a children's hug-of-fun, is that right?"

"Was that aimed at me?" said Rhain through gritted teeth.

"I _am_ looking at you, aren't I?"

"Don't be rude. Every job has its dignity," said Rhain defensively, flustered.

"LaCroix, Ramirez!" barked the older lady.

Rhain bellowed, "How come _I_ ended up in this?"

"I was too small for it," reminded Tsuki. "Not to mention you're better at handsprings than I am."

"You think that's easy in this costume?"

"Stop screaming, we're next to you," scoffed Mireille, arms folded.

"LaCroix-" began their boss.

Tsuki grabbed Rhain's hand, pulled her along, and dragged them away into a sprint. She waved over her shoulders at Noir. "We'll see ya around! Come visit our stations. Rhain's also the 'Drown-the-Clown'—!"

Rhain lied, "NO I'M NOT!"

Mireille crossed her arms proudly, as if she had conquered half of France. Kirika enjoyed this side of Mireille. She wondered what they would have been like if they met a few years back when Mireille was still a teenager, or as her classmate in high school? How long had she been an assassin? Little things Kirika liked to marvel over.

Mireille looked to Kirika. "So, do you remember going to any fairs in high school or something?" It was a weird thing saying that to an assassin like Kirika.

The latter shook her head.

"Well, let's make it unforgettable," said Mireille with a cocky expression. Kirika trotted along.

"Tsuki, I'm gonna throw you in a tank of lobsters to see how you feel being taunted," threatened Rhain, recognizing how the fair was luring Tsuki into a carefree state of mind.

Tsuki laughed. "Oh no, not the butter knife!" She clasped her hands together dramatically. "The _carnage_!"

Rhain growled. She attempted to swing around and knock Tsuki down, but that was to no avail considering how lethargic her costume was.

"Who gives a lobster a name? Who the _hell_ even makes a lobster Paris' 'FAIR MASCOT'?" roared Rhain.

"Start crawling, Larry, those little kids are _hungry_ for some attention," joked Tsuki, who gestured over curious toddlers.

Rhain lifted her pincers, grinning mischievously. "I'll give them a grandma's pinch of love on the cheek."

Tsuki threw her a flat expression. "Restrain yourself." As the children bounced around Rhain, wanting to hold her hand, Tsuki added, "Your shift to 'Drown-the-Clown' will be within an hour. So be there."

"What are you doing, Nanny?" growled Rhain.

"I work, too," said Tsuki. She grinned and left as the giant lobster stumbled backwards over three-year-old twins.

Kirika halted, with Mireille bumping into her. She turned her head, her chocolate-colored eyes aimed at ducklings going in circles at a station. People tried fishing them out by the magnetic nuggets on their heads.

"A child's game, but I guess I'd do the same thing while being young lasts," said Mireille.

They approached a man, who stood in the inner ring of the circular tank. He proclaimed, "Three bucks, three bucks! Nag that little duck within the 60-second time limit! One duckling and you get a small prize—two to three duckings, and you have a medium! Three or more and you have yourself a large!"

Mireille smiled politely as she handed him three bucks. She stood there, waiting for Kirika, who returned the stare, puzzled, as if it was all she could do. The cat hung there in Kirika's uncomfortable hug.

"You're going to suffocate her," said Mireille. She took the cat, praying it wouldn't scratch her. "Now fish those ducks out and win a prize. It's simple, really."

Kirika was given a fishing pole. Children or teenagers surrounded her, flinging and dangling their fish lines. Some jostled her, excited, as they surrounded their friends. She copied them, awkwardly wriggling her line over passing ducklings below her. Mireille desperately tried to watch and cheer her on, but the cat was such a handful.

When the timer went off, Kirika won a small prize: a small black cat. Mireille couldn't help but smile at the coincidence.

"Here," said a guy next to Kirika. She watched as he bestowed his girlfriend a stuffed giraffe. He won a squeal of delight, followed by an embrace.

Looking at her stuffed cat, Kirika turned to Mireille and gave it to her.

"Kirika, I paid so _you_ could win something," said Mireille, shaking her head, yet with a fond smile.

"Here," urged Kirika, smiling. When Mireille exchanged the stuffed cat for Kirika's pet, she smiled at it.

"What next?" asked Mireille.

Kirika glanced around. Slowly. Mireille was used to this strange mannerism of hers, and patiently waited. Whenever she saw Kirika stare at something for more than ten seconds, she knew Kirika was interested. Without hesitation, Mireille would step up next to Kirika, smile at her or catch her gaze, and walk toward a station. In the following events, they shot hoops, threw balls into ringed holes, tested their strength hammering the light up to the bells, popping balloons with darts, whacking moles, and even tested the heart-chilling rides.

"The Pendulum . . .?" read Kirika, staring at big glowing letters dashing across the midsection of a high beam. At the crossbar met another horizontal beam, with visible seats hanging at the ends. In the motion of a windmill, the seats were spun all the way from top to bottom, backwards and forwards, but the screams the same.

"You don't intend on riding that?" questioned Mireille, nearly shuddering. It was a small machine compared to most in bigger fairs, but it was still nauseating to look at. She met Kirika's curious, anxious eyes.

"You're not really thinking . . .?" repeated Mireille.

Kirika appeared, at first, apprehensive, but then walked into the line at the bottom of the Pendulum. Mireille nearly shuddered as she watched after her friend.

Kirika turned her head. "Are you scared?" she asked. It was insulting, yet chilling the way she said it.

"There are certain things we brave against more than others," stated Mireille, looking away. "This is one of them, I must admit."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Of course not."

When Kirika was strapped into a wall-in seat, Mireille began to fidget with her pink purse. Kirika didn't look at Mireille, but rather at around her, below her, and especially up. Mireille didn't know why she was so concerned—the girl was Noir. It wasn't as if Soldats were waiting at the top ready to push Kirika off. She nearly chuckled at the idea, but then quickly looked around for any suspicious figures. It was relieving and alien to realize there was no such thing.

"You sure you feeling okay?" pressured Mireille for the third time.

They sat down on a bench. Mireille watched as the Japanese bent over her thighs and clung her stomach as if she'd been stabbed.

"It's funny," declared Mireille thoughtfully. "You always seem used to jumping so high. I guess this is different, huh?"

Kirika exhaled, yet her breath shuddered. Then, she straightened up, looking ahead. "I think I'm fine, now."

Mireille almost glared. "Really?"

"Really." In all honesty, Kirika didn't want to cut their fun day short. She wanted it to last forever.

"If you're sure . . ." said Mireille, standing. She eyed Kirika sharply. The girl almost drooped forward to the abrupt motion, but stood up straight and gave a shy, pale smile. To test her condition, Mireille gave her the cat. Maybe it would distract her.

They walked over to target-shooting. Mireille second-guessed the idea, but Kirika didn't seem bothered by the idea of pulling a trigger again.

"Why ducks?" asked Kirika, propping up the toy rifle.

"Why care?" said Mireille, snarling at the cat's attempt to leave. The person in charge of the station stared at her, confused, but when she glared at him he began his announcements.

"Steady, now, steady!"

"He thinks he's a pro," chortled Mireille.

Kirika successfully nailed the bulls-eyes on each passing duck with a hydro-blast of water. It was interesting that, here, they could still use guns and look like ordinary people for once. It was strange not hearing any fires in return.

"Mireille, you try," said Kirika, proffering the rifle.

"I don't feel like it," said Mireille, although holding the cat was not such a fun alternative either.

Suddenly, there was a chicken cluck. "Chicken! Bup-bup-bup-bup!"

Next to them was a stand with a box of prison bars. A dump tank. They spied Rhain grinning from behind, sitting over water.

"You can't fire nuttin'!" mocked Rhain, flapping her chicken wings.

"Says the _chicken_," retorted Mireille, putting a hand on a hip. She narrowed her eyes. "From lobster to chicken. I'm actually impressed."

"Was that an insult?"

"Definitely better than yours."

"Weak."

"You haven't even said anything, yet!" snapped Mireille.

"Too fool to be cool."

"You're forgetting who's behind bars, fool."

Rhain flapped fervently, ignoring the kid who was already throwing balls at the target below her barred display.

Annoyance crept over Mireille's face. Kirika, holding her rifle, looked from Mireille to Rhain. She was oblivious to the people complaining behind her, waiting in line to shoot the bulls-eyed ducks.

"Looks like you've got a line of conspiracy behind ya," laughed Rhain.

Mireille maintained a straight face. "You're beneath me." The crowds between the dunking station and the rifle station gasped.

"Barbie-girl stripper!" blurted Rhain angrily.

Mireille grabbed Kirika's rifle and fired. Her blast punched the bulls-eye and dumped Rhain immediately. Nearby audiences standing or walking by laughed hysterically. Rhain resurfaced, supporting herself back onto her seats, wings curling desperately around the prison bars. She hoisted herself up, soaked.

"You forgot to pay," she growled.

"Sorry." Mireille fired again.

Rhain fell. More laughter. The man in charge of the target-shooting roared in protest.

"Nice shot!" exclaimed someone from behind. Mireille and Kirika turned. It was Tsuki. "You own video games, or something?"

Mireille looked at her. "Yeah . . . sure."

Tsuki found that funny. "Keep it up."

"HEY!" roared Rhain from her bars.

"If you're that desperate for money, do your job," Mireille hollered to her. "As far as I'm concerned, you're a hobbo."

"CRPYT-KEEPER!"

Mireille was about to grab the rifle again, but Tsuki motioned with an index finger: "Three dollars."

Mireille practically threw her purse at Tsuki, then grabbed five balls. She threw two at Rhain's cage to scare the crap out of her, and the rest successfully at the bulls-eye. Her performance jogged the attention of a good group of men; they whooped and cheered her on. A few whistled; Kirika glared at their wild behavior and keen eyes on Mireille.

Rhain resurfaced. "TAKE HER WALLET, TSUKI. RUN AWAY!" she screeched.

Tsuki shook her head and giggled. She handed the wallet to Kirika after removing the three dollars. This satisfied Mireille, who grinned triumphantly at Rhain. As the chicken and Corsican threw more empty threats, Kirika realized something.

Mireille had dropped her cat when she fired her first shot at Rhain.

"Where'd my cat go?"

Mireille paused, even when Rhain continued to rant. "Damn," she whispered, alarmed at Kirika's sudden panic. The Japanese looked this way and that among the crowd. Without a word, Mireille took her purse from Kirika, and the two rushed out of sight.

"Humph," said Rhain, watching after them. "What a failure to society."

"That's a good one," laughed Tsuki, accepting the following customers' cash. "Too bad she didn't hear that one."

"No, I'm thinking 'shame to society'—," began Rhain, but the bell went off as a kid hit her bulls-eye. Her body crashed into the water.

When she emerged, Tsuki joked, "I dunno. I think you two like each other."

"Oh, the sugary love," said Rhain sarcastically. As the kid missed, she said in all seriousness, "Everything set?"

Tsuki nodded, smiling grimly.

Kirika's fingers tapped against her side nervously. No matter how hard she tried, she didn't see a glimpse of dark fur. She scanned the fair grounds, peeked behind vendors and stations—having to be chased off by employees—and even asked around. She stood on top of a picnic table, although the height made barely a difference. There were just too many people.

They stood next to a rodeo station, where people eagerly showed off their balancing skills on the metallic bull. Mireille watched the machine buck off a man in a cowboy get-up. He was flung over the walls between where Mireille and Kirika stood.

"Excuse me?" said Kirika, jumping down from the picnic table, kneeling next to the moaning man. "Have you seen a cat?"

"What the . . . _hell_?" grunted the injured man through gritted teeth.

His buddies rushed over to check on him. One of them glanced at Mireille, who stared back, then asked him if he'd seen a cat. When he shook his head, he opened his mouth to say something else, but Kirika grabbed Mireille's hand and pulled them away.

"I told you you shouldn't have brought a cat to a fair!" hollered Mireille over their haste.

"You dropped her!" said Kirika over her shoulders.

Mireille felt guilty. They slowed down to catch their breath; Kirika whipped her head this way and that, panicking.

"I'm sorry," murmured Mireille. She added carefully, "But you do know that cats are fine on their own? They're more independent than dogs—."

"She's _small_!" cried Kirika. "She could get hurt!"

Mireille shut her mouth, ashamed of herself.

"Pardon me," said a man in a jean jacket and pants. He came over from a snack stand. "Everything alright?"

"My cat, I can't find her!" said Kirika pleadingly. "She's black, with yellow eyes. Have you seen her?"

"Sorry, miss, but they're everywhere in this area," said the guy, shrugging. "But I can bet you anything that she's being held hostage."

His eerie words in that friendly tone threw Noir off. They stared at him. Kirika's eyes darkened as he gave them a chivalrous smile.

"Sorry ladies, but if you want that cat back, V demands you meet up—and give up," he threatened.

Mireille's fingers twitched, ready to pull out her gun from her purse. She still couldn't believe she carried it around, hidden, but was very grateful for following her instincts.

"And why would we 'give up'?" said Mireille. "You mean, that we let you shoot us."

The man chuckled. "I like your humor. You understand, then. Alright, then, since you know where his hotel is, meet him there tonight at midnight. He's a decent man, he'll give you a chance to prepare yourselves."

This insulted Noir. Although Kirika remained expressionless, Mireille felt her tense next to her.

"You know how it goes," said the man. "Comply, and the cat won't die."

"Mireille," whispered Kirika. Her friend looked at her, then remembered it was the cat's name. And for some reason, she felt Kirika's pain despite her disliking toward the creature.

"If you arrive a little earlier, hey, maybe we'll, I dunno, toss her around," said the man, shrugging. "If you arrive a little too late, well, then, you know. So be there exactly at midnight. No tricks. Here's a little something-something to make sure you read the time right. A gift from the Soldats."

Mireille and Kirika froze, as he tossed them something familiar. It seemed to wink in the red glow of nearby lights. Mireille's arm reached high, and she snatched it from mid-air. She didn't even have to look at it. Its pearly chains tapped against her temple, its round, cool figure fitting perfectly in her hand, as if it belonged there, never to be removed.

"Varrichione cannot wait to meet the True Noir," said the man, nodding to them and disappearing into the crowd.

Noir looked at something deep in their hearts, its roots having never left them after all. Mireille didn't want to, but already found herself clicking against the side of the pocketwatch. And among the laughter, the melody took over. It sang through the crowds, through the clattering and popping of toy guns, through the cheers of friends congratulating each other, or whining of children.

"How?" whispered Mireille, glaring at the broken face of the watch. "We left it behind. We left it all behind . . ."

Suddenly Kirika reached into Mireille's purse and pulled out her gun. Mireille questioned whether or not the girl always knew, but there was no time to marvel, as she chased Kirika all the way into more remote streets.

"Kirika, no!" shouted Mireille, grabbing the Japanese's arms. When she turned her around, a flame glowed in the girl's eyes.

"What does it matter?" said Kirika. "He knows we're after him. So why don't we go now—."

"You're better than this," roared Mireille. "You know better!"

Kirika pulled, but Mireille pulled harder. She looked around warily, grateful the only few pedestrians were across the street from them, focused on reaching the fair. Mireille gently pushed Kirika to sit down at a nearby bus station. She snatched the gun from her and slipped it back into her purse. Thankfully, no one else sat there at the bus stop.

"We approach this carefully," said Mireille, panting. "I will not lose you to clouded judgment."

"What is it?" asked Rhain.

"A cat?" whispered Tsuki, brow furrowed to recollections of Kirika talking about a cat. Their departure had been abrupt and definitely not according to their plan.

Rhain was drying herself in the same blue swimming suit from their day at the canal with Noir; she had worn it underneath her lobster costume. She watched Tsuki's thoughtful expression, discarding the costume on the ground without care. Meanwhile, Tsuki looked down after realizing she'd stepped on a stuffed animal. A small black cat. She picked it up with care, then her eyes stretched alarmingly.

"Is this what they were talking about? It was right here this whole time—." Tsuki paused.

"Yeah?" asked Rhain.

Tsuki shot her an alarming look. "He knew. V knew, from the very beginning. Even before we contacted him!"

The Asian turned and broke into a sprint, dropping the stuffed animal. Rhain glanced at it, then suddenly understood. She followed eagerly.

As they ran side-by-side, Tsuki gasped angrily, "He knew about Noir before they learned of him. Probably not too long from when we gave him the false warning of the threats against him from the Soldats . . .!"

Rhain caught on. "He saw her tenderness for animals. Of course. The cat . . ."

V had done despicable things during his allegiance to the Soldats. That included studying his enemies, then getting them to betray each other, one faction against another. Whatever got the Soldats to replace fallen comrades with V himself, just he could join a more powerful faction. Over time, his deeds were discovered. However, through all of that, such privilege gave him access to all he needed to know about Noir.

They both realized it at the same time: V used a cat to lure Kirika. Merely a small, benign distraction. What amazed them was how he knew about Noir's bond. Most enemies only looked at Noir as a formidable machine—but V saw them as two human beings that shared a connection unlike any other. He must have been watching them for some time. He probably even deliberately stayed in the closest hotel to keep an eye on them before they even knew about his existence.

He figured out Mireille would do anything for Kirika's happiness. He knew by keeping his cat around the street where Noir resided, that Mireille would find it and Kirika would grow attached to it. The bond between cat and its new owner was complete, and Kirika's determination to retrieve "her cat" was at full accordance to his plan.

"He knew the Soldats would send someone of high rank to sanction him for this crimes," gasped Tsuki. "He knew it'd be Noir, _dammit_!"

Just as they turned a corner, they saw Noir board a bus. It was the same they used to come to the fair. Tsuki and Rhain sprinted faster, but the bus already took off.

Tsuki and Rhain retrieved their motorcycles and took pursuit. It was embarrassing it took two experts that long to catch up with Noir. When they parked in front of Noir's apartment, there seemed to be no lights on. On pure instincts, they sped toward V's hotel.

They parked a few blocks away just in case. Tsuki looked up at a building and said, "Split up!"

"I'll check the ground perimeters," said Rhain, nodding. They separated, Rhain dashing toward the streets facing the grand hotel, Tsuki scaling the walls.

Tsuki found a water pipe and climbed it, strategically fitting hands and feet between pipe and wall. She reached a porch, looked through the glass doors, and knocked. A couple sitting at their table watching TV came to the window and opened it. She sprung through, shouting, "Thanks!" and burst past them.

She carved her way through what was apparently an apartment complex, guessing which rooms faced the other side. She knocked on someone else's door and broke through, leaping off deck and onto a lower, slanted roof. It was connected two more buildings, adjacent to V's hotel. Tsuki glared at the majestic, adorned architecture and ran the rooftops toward it.

Rhain casually walked through the front entrance. The bellman dipped his head to her, gesturing her inside. She smiled hurriedly as she pressed on. Inside the front lobby glowed like a palace, with a diamond chandelier glittering above, and cushioned furniture seating luxuriously-dressed guests.

"Can I help you, miss?" said the woman from the front desk.

Rhain smiled weakly and walked over. She leaned in and beamed, asking, "Yes, my friend is rooming here."

The employee smiled. "And who would that be, miss? I will make sure to call them to announce your arrival."

"Uh, Mireille Bouquet?"

The woman typed away at her computer, eyes reflecting a blue glow. Meanwhile, Rhain looked up the flight of rugged stairs to the upper lounge. It hinted three hallways splitting up at a T-shaped intersection, an elevator on either side of the railed veranda.

"I'm sorry, miss, I don't see that name here," said the woman.

Rhain opened her mouth to make another excuse, when she was interrupted by gunshots.

Mireille was bleeding. She burst into a hotel room. Inside, a family burst from their beds, screaming. She ignored them as she locked herself in their bathroom door and rummaged under their sink until luck would have it that she'd discover their First Aid Kit. She quickly wrapped up the deep gash on her forearm from an earlier gunfight.

She heard a booming sound, deafening the screams of the family outside. Men shouted. Women wailed. V's guards shouted for her to come out or they'd shoot the family.

Nothing was more embarrassing and troublesome than obstacles in your line of work. Mireille held her breath and walked out, hands in the air. Why? She didn't know. But when she glimpsed at the father, a mother with her infant in her arms, and their thirteen-year-old daughter cowering between them—huddled in a corner or behind the master bed—she was brought back to gunshots from her past.

One of the henchmen tugged the daughter from her mother. He held her in front of him for a shield, sliding sideways with her, keeping his gun aimed at Mireille. His partner was behind him for protection. The French stood there, gun aimed, knowing any other movement would aggravate them into shooting the little girl.

In fact, the henchman finally clicked the gun against the little girl's head. She whimpered. The mother and father begged and begged, wailing.

"Please!" they shrieked, wide-eyed at Mireille.

The enemy pulled the little girl by the hair.

"SAVE US!" shouted the parents.

Their screams probably already alerted the whole hotel. Mireille was surprised no one ran by at the sound of screaming; sometimes, people knew better. Still, she knew this gave her some time before someone called 911.

Mireille lowered her gun, glaring at the enemy as they crept past her, out the room.

She aimed and fired.

"NO!" screamed the parents, as both henchmen and little girl fell. The mother covered her mouth, red face wrinkling in agony. The father exploded forward, charging at Mireille. She kicked him away, then aimed her gun at the henchmen. She had shot one of them in the hand, which was caked in red. He rolled on the floor, howling in pain.

His partner, however, only got shot in the leg. He fired at her. Mireille charged to the side, slanted along the wall, and missiled into him; a counterattack she learned from watching Kirika in battle. Upon knocking into him, she also thrust her gun into his stomach, pulling the trigger. He was already dead before both of them hit the floor. Without hesitation, Mireille aimed sideways and shot the other man rolling on the floor in agony. Blood seeped out into the public hallway.

When the shooting stopped, the parents peered from behind the bed and cried when they saw their girl lying on the floor in a red halo. The father ran over to dial 911, but Mireille shot the phone. It stung his fingers, as he cried out. He dropped the receiver and backed away, eyes swollen with tears.

Mireille frowned. "She's fine." She headed toward the exit, while the family hugged each other. At the door, she turned around as the father smeared off the girl's blood-stained face with her own pajama sleeve. When the family looked up, Mireille pointed her gun as she backed out.

"Take it as your I-O-U to me," she said softly.

Before she turned around, however, bullets zipped by. She hit the floor, lucky to find cover behind a drawer with a mirror and some decorative plates. When she remembered the family inside the room, Mireille kicked their door closed. Then, she scrambled to her feet, dodge-rolled, and escaped around a corner. Footsteps followed relentlessly, with shouts.

When they turned the corner, something smashed into their leader's face. Vase shards sprayed the air and slid across the floor. He knocked back into his followers, allowing Mireillle to bounce off the wall and shoot.

Two more remained.

A bullet bit into the arm opposite of her bandaged arm. Her bicep flexed in pain. She cried out, and threw herself behind the corner of a different hallway. She winced, flexing her fingers; it hurt to move them. Her heart pounded loud in her ears.

They fired at her, chipping the corner. Despite the uselessness of her right arm, Mireille dodge-rolled till she made it underneath a giant table. She knocked it down sideways for a shield. Her enemies abandoned efforts to fire, and next thing she knew, they were already charging at her. Roaring through her injury, Mireille clashed with them with her table. The corner of the table pierced one guy's eye and gutted him in the stomach.

However, his partner kicked the table out of Mirelle's hands and punched her in the face, knocking her down. Her gun slid away. Mireille lay there, knowing death when she saw it. He pointed his gun down at her, wheezing angrily.

As she seem to stare into death, she remembered why she was alive now.

_Click._

Kirika.

She rolled as he fired.

She was still alive, she had gotten this far, because of Kirika.

He continued to shoot blindly, cursing. She kept rolling, miraculously dodging every bullet. The ground steamed from the misses.

For the first time in a long time, Mireille actually had something to lose.

As she rolled around, her bandages unwound from her wound. Just as he lifted his foot to stomp her, she pulled both ends of her sweaty bandages, and caught his foot in between. This caught him off balance; he hopped backwards, falling, gun flying into the air. Mireille caught it in her uninjured hand and fired.

For the next minute, Mireille caught her breath. She clenched her teeth at her bleeding arm. The bullets hadn't hit anything vital, but she felt dizzy from the blood loss. She ripped strips of fabric from their suits, and tightened a band as hard as she could around her arm to stop the blood flow. She stole the dead's leftover magazines, then, looked up and ran for Kirika.


	5. Chapter 5: No Time

Chapter 5

No Time

Six men cornered her. Kirika aimed at the glass case of a fire alarm and shot it. With the shards, she charged at two men. They froze in their tracks at the aggressive advance. She jumped high, and struck them both in the throats just before landing between them. They crumbled, dead. Two more men charged, firing blindly. Kirika threw herself onto the first's shoulders as if receiving a shoulder ride, then tightened her legs around his neck and flung him backwards to the ground. She rolled backwards to dodge the other's fires, then flicked back up onto her feet, landing onto his chest. Her weight toppled him backwards. Before they hit the floor, Kirika stomped his face into the floor for extra damage.

He did not give up. Although his face was mangled and bloodied, he got up and threw a punch. But Kirika ducked, flipped backwards—her feet met the ceiling for a second, as if she was standing upside-down, before she launched back down. On her way down, she lodged her gun into his mouth, and fired. Then she grabbed more guns and continued on.

There was more gunfire behind her, but she didn't look back.

_Mireille_.

Kirika ran up a flight of stairs.

"Just fucking brilliant!" roared Rhain.

Guests fled their rooms, bumping into her or others. Rhain ordered them to escape down the flight of stairs. Some were stupid enough to enter elevators, but she reprimanded them, throwing them out toward the staircases. One of them rambled about how a blonde jeopardized his family, demanding she call the police.

Rhain passed the second and third floor, where men were bathed in blood, glass, and vase shards. Hallways were scarred by bullets; furniture broken and slumped against walls.

Now it was just a matter of whether or not Noir escaped alive, and if they succeeded in killing Varrichione. Rhain joined the panic toward outside. As she jogged along crying guests, she looked around in search of Tsuki, Mireille, or Kirika.

Sirens whined in the distance. Murmurs in the streets rose to panic and confusion. Mireille dodged people running toward the scene. She now wore an overcoat from a fallen gunman. With everyone around her distracted, no one noticed the bit of blood seeping through her sleeve. She calmly turned a corner and casually took a brown leather jacket from its racket outside a store putting on a sale.

A police car drove by. After much experience, she knew to watch it drive by rather than keep her eye straight ahead. Any normal person would naturally act confused and curious, not keep a steady yet suspicious walk away from the scene.

The car drove on without stopping. Mireille took a big breath and tightened the heavy man's jacket over the overcoat.

"Miss, are you okay?" shouted someone from behind. She had walked by an outdoor restaurant, railed in by a fence. However, a customer randomly watching her walk by pointed out a trail of blood behind her.

He vaulted the fence and rushed over to her. Mireille stumbled backwards, shocked at such keen attention.

"Miss, you're bleeding!" he said, inspecting her layers of clothing.

"Stop it, before you—!" began Mireille, when there were shouts. From the opposite direction were cops running by, asking about a blonde. They saw her trail of blood and pointed at her.

Mireille whipped around, ramming her elbow into the guy's face. He howled, stepping away. She winced at the fact that she had used her injured arm. When the police ran toward her, she dashed across the street. She ran into the heart of town, where she hoped Saturday evening would offer plenty of cover in its bustling shoppers.

Her eyes widened in surprise when she spotted a familiar brunette head up ahead.

_Kirika_—wait! She couldn't afford to call out to her. It would endanger her. Mireille switched directions, desperately searching the crowds for any means of cover. As she ran, she threw off her layers of clothing. There were shouts behind her, the sound of startled cries as people were being pushed aside.

She needed new clothes. Fast.

Mireille tried to slow down in the crowd. It was Saturday. The flea market. Enough people. She slowed her breathing, wearing a calmer expression. She turned another sharp left, heading towards a long set of tables under a tent. They wrapped around an empty rectangular space in the middle.

To her relief, another rack of clothes stood nearby. When no one looked, she grabbed a silky red scarf and wrapped it around her arm to cover the existing bandage and to stop the bloodflow. She quickly picked out a short-sleeved leather jacket with a woolen hood sticking out, pretending she was looking at herself in the mirror—just in time as police and volunteering citizens rushed by.

Next to her, a young woman glared at her. Mireille didn't need to ask if she knew. She casually tucked her hands into the pockets of her new jacket, staring sideways at the woman.

The woman looked down at the gun peeking from Mireille's pocket.

"Please. I don't want to hurt you," murmured Mireille. "I'm just trying to save a friend—."

"Mireille!" Someone grabbed Mireille's arm from behind, making her wince.

Tsuki.

"Are you ok?" she whispered, eyeing her worriedly.

"I'm fine—what the hell you doing—?" panicked Mireille, looking around them.

"COPS! OVER HERE!" shouted the woman next to her. Mireille and Tsuki gasped, while she glared them down. "You're the ones they're looking for, aren't you?"

Mireille gritted her teeth, pointing her gun at the woman.

"_No_, Mireille!" hissed Tsuki, pulling her away.

From behind, they heard the woman shout, "Over here! There are two of them! Cops, over here! Someone call 911!"

They fled downhill toward the more remote streets. Finally, in an alley by an abandoned park, Tsuki paused when she saw Mireille's bleeding arm. "Mireille, your arm—!"

Mireille whirled around, gripping Tsuki by the collar. "What the hell do you think you're doing—?"

Sirens.

Then, voices.

The two looked up, as two men looked down at them from the rooftops. They shouted, then fired down at them. Mireille and Tsuki retreated back out the alley; they'd rather risk the public than being trapped.

"He has them everywhere!" roared Mireille, hearing Tsuki's footsteps behind her. _She's gonna slow me down. I can't involve her either . . ._

"Here!" shouted Mireille, throwing her gun back to Tsuki.

"What—?"

They were crossing a bridge. A risk, even Tsuki knew that. But it was too late. Suddenly, cars swarmed in from either side of the bridge. Cops halted, pulling out their guns—at the same time, V's guards, wanting to claim the title of Noir in his name.

"Mireille!" screamed Tsuki, ducking at the crossfire.

"C'mon!" shouted Mireille, charging toward the side of the bridge. Luckily, Tsuki was right on her tail. Just before they jumped, Mireille ordered, "Climb!" She nearly pushed Tsuki over, who finally got the message.

Tsuki swooped her legs over the giant, intricately carved railings. She hung there, hands gripping the edge. Then turned around, dropped, and caught hold of an angel statue supporting the bridge. She swooped in and wedged herself into the gap between the angel's head and its trumpet. She peeked out, waiting for Mireille.

There were gunfires. A body fell by her.

"MIREILLE!" screamed Tsuki.

There was a splash. Water bloomed and bubbled from the impact. Tsuki leaned over from her perch, searching down below. A vague shadow slithered tighter under the bridge. Then, Mireille resurfaced through a cold burst, gasping quietly.

"Mireille," whispered Tsuki, relieved—but there was more gunfire.

The woman submerged again, then clung to the cement wall underneath the bridge. She gasped at her open wound. She fumbled to reload her gun. Within minutes, Varrichione's henchmen, who must have left their comrades to handle the police above, ran down the hills alongside the bridge. When they saw Mireille, they shouted.

Mireille looked at Tsuki and shrieked, "Tsuki, your GUN!"

Without hesitation, Tsuki flashed out her gun, and fired down all guards. Some fell into the water, others fell backwards on their knees, mouths agape. In the distance, witnesses along the river fled.

Mireille lost her breath at the accurate body count falling under Tsuki's fires. She stared up at the Asian, who held the gun professionally. Straight expression, alert eyes—even her concerned expression didn't seem so worried.

_SplashSplashSplash_! A hidden man from the other side of the bridge joined Mireille under the bridge. He pulled out his gun and fired.

"MIREILLE!"

Kirika rammed sideways into him. Both disappeared underwater. Mireille didn't care about her pain anymore—as the man resurfaced, she fired. At the same time, Kirika sat up, and out of panic, shot him again.

His body was a lump floating along the water. Noir exchanged weary, yet relieved expressions. Kirika saw the bleeding bicep. Mireille saw her wounded shins. Both dragged through the water toward each other.

Kirika panted, "Mireille!" But then she staggered and tripped into Mireille. Her partner slumped forward to catch her, but Kirika caught herself. She smiled breathlessly at Mireille.

There was the sound of a thunderclap.

They turned their attention back to Tsuki, who fell from her perch.

Blood fogged the water. Noir splashed over to where she fell, but Tsuki stood up, coughing, wiping water and hair from her face. She clutched her side.

Before they could reach Tsuki, more enemies appeared at shore. From behind, they aimed at the Asian, whose back faced them.

"Tsuki—!" screamed Kirika.

However, before the enemy fired, they were lit on fire.

The gunmen stopped, dropped, and rolled. They were replaced by Rhain, who stood there, palm flat out.

"What the hell?" whispered Mireille.

Behind Rhain were more gunshots. She dodge-rolld out of harm's way, and joined the other three under the bridge, momentarily out of range. Rhain looked at Tsuki, and nodded. Noir looked over to Tsuki, who returned the gesture.

Tsuki pointed Mireille's gun upward. Such a bold stance.

"They . . . can fight . . ." stated Kirika, nearly speechless.

Tsuki looked over her shoulders at them. "We're so sorry."

As the men advanced, Rhain charged forward, while Tsuki covered her from behind. Their enemy attempted punches, but Rhain dodged, flicking them in the face with her elbows. With a simple slap to his chest, she knocked him down.

Noir squinted. The man ripped a sticky note from his chest, with Japanese dialect painted on. The paint was clearly fresh, sticking to his hand like goo as he looked at it confusingly.

Suddenly, Tsuki slid into him and punched him right where the sticky pad was. When he got up a few feet away, Noir's eyes reflected hell:

He burst into flames. The rotten stench of burning flesh, and something stronger, thickened the air.

Mireille pinched her nose. "Is that . . . oil?"

"That's right," said Rhain, her calm demeanor paralyzing Noir and even the enemy. She pulled out a pad of sticky note, leafing through it. Most of it was already covered in black paint. In her other hand, was a paintbrush.

And between the fingers of Tsuki's clenched fist, was a lighter.

"No way . . ." gasped Mireille.

Rhain caught two nearby men off guard still in shock, slapping her sticky notes against their chests, foreheads, legs, or backs. Tsuki followed up with her own series of punches. Their enemy writhed in the flames.

Tsuki fiddled with her lighter, looking at Noir. "Rhain marks them, I ignite them with a single punch and press of a button."

"But why . . . fire?" asked Kirika.

"It's quick and quite frankly, unexpected," boasted Rhain. From behind, a man locked her into a bear hug, arms cushioning underneath her armpits and fists pressed against the back of her head. She busted her arms open like wings, while at the same time crouching and stepping on one of his feet. Then, she heeled him in the groin, picked up a stick on the ground, and stabbed him through his sunglasses.

"And, it burns the bodies," said Rhain, who pasted a sticky note to him. It dripped with thin oil, but enough to ignite to Tsuki's follow up.

"And the aroma of death?" retorted Mireille.

"In time, washed away by the river next to us—and the smell of a barbeque," said Rhain. Noir flinched at the dark humor. She dropped her stabbing stick. "Death by flame. Seems more natural than . . . by human hands."

"Your fire tortured them," whispered Kirika.

"Why not a quick bullet to end their misery?" agreed Mireille, almost pitying their enemy.

They heard shouts, more sirens and vehicles screeching to a halt above them. In the distance, on the sides of the river, more police cars pulled up.

Rhain glared at Noir. "Go! Through the sewer right there!"

A small pipe jutted from underneath the bridge. It was big enough, though, for humans to slip through.

Rhain strategically tossed her pad of sticky notes along the river. Tsuki traced from both sides of the bridge with her lighter, catching the grass on fire in a beautiful straight, defensive line.

"Heat rises," sang Rhain as fire scrambled up the rolling hills. Men yelled, their voices retreating back to the top of the bridge.

Rhain turned and roared, "NOW!"

Mireille and Kirika hesistated, eyes honoring Tsuki and Rhain. Then, Mireille supported Kirika as they bent on all fours and crawled into the sewer pipe.

Mireille managed to get them deep into the heart of the sewer passages. There, Kirika's strength waned. She dropped to the cold stone floor, weighing Mireille along with her. They laid there for about a few seconds, until Kirika remembered her promise to Odette Bouquet: to be Mireille's strength, to care for Mireille. What a funny thing to ask a child with a gun in her hands . . .

Kirika whispered, "Forgive me . . . Odette."

Mireille was clenching her teeth until she heard that. She looked over to Kirika. "Hey, now," she panted, with a quivering smile.

"I was selfish," continued Kirika. She pulled herself up to sit up, then leaned against the filthy wall. "I was obsessed with that cat . . . who was so much like me."

"Kirika . . ."

"She was all that was left of me . . . and you're all I have left," whimpered Kirika.

"Don't go talking like that. We're not dead. Now c'mon, Tsuki and Rhain gave us time, but not enough, so I need you to keep going. I'll hold them—."

"No!" burst Kirika, grabbing Mireille's arm gently in case it was the bleeding one. "We do this together."

"Your shins look horrible. You go, I will catch up, I promise—."

"No, Mireille. I promised your mother."

"Well, sorry, looks like you're gonna have break that promise!" snapped Mireille, pulling away from Kirika. "I don't plan on losing you after losing her, now do I—?"

Shouts.

"I heard something!"

The men were still a good distance away, but Noir could make out flashlights stabbing the darkness in all directions.

"Shit," hissed Mireille as she picked up her gun. She winced at her dominant bicep, even though she wasn't using it. "Go, Kirika."

Kirika did not want to leave behind that voice, the one that said her name with meaning, with these other voices. She refused to. Kirika reached for the barrel of the gun and clasped her hands around it, locking it in place. That way, Mireille wouldn't attempt to distract the enemy with her gunfire.

"Kirika, let go!" demanded Mireille, hissing through her teeth.

How she said her name was so much meaning, as if it was sacramental.

"Let GO!" hissed Mireille.

"Mireille," said Kirika sternly. "_Listen_ to me."

They lowered their voices as the footsteps echoed closer.

And Mireille listened.

"There's no one here," said one of the gunmen.

"Shhh," ordered their leader. He listened to the whisper of running sewer water. The faint sound of traffic above was a dreamlike sound in the distance. He listened for panicked, quiet breathing in a shadowy corner somewhere.

BANG.

Darkness took one man at a time until the leader remained. He cursed, his flashlight spearing the darkness. Before he could pin the enemy's location, a gun went off. He felt a stinging, breath-taking pain in his liver. As he staggered, grunting, his flashlight cornered down a silhouette emerging from the water. It was a small girl on the shoulders of an older woman.

Mireille panted, not caring how loud she was. Kirika remained perched on her shoulders—just like they had planned.

"Like that time with the popcorn in the darkness," chuckled Mireille, looking up at Kirika.

More running footsteps and shouts. Their gunshots had only lured more down.

Kirika smiled, however. "We've escaped darkness before. We can do it again . . ."

After another good run giving Kirika a shoulder-ride, Mireillle stopped, gasping for breath. They stood a few feet from a halo of light from a slightly open manhole above. She boosted Kirika up to check for oncoming traffic and if it was a public area. Kirika declared the place clear, and Noir clambered out. Hoping their staggering and their bloody wounds didn't catch anyone's eye, the two slipped into an alley. They sat behind a giant blue dumpster. It was the most unpleasant thing to hide behind it, but it beat being stuck down in the darkness.

Mireille's chest heaved. "Our clothes . . ." She bit her lip as she attempted to unwrap her bandages, but her wounded arm made it unbearable. She had to keep from crying out.

Kirika stopped her. "My arms are fine, let me do it." She ripped shreds of their clothing to wrap themselves up. And yet, nothing could keep the blood from flowing, the pain to stop.

"So. It's kinda funny . . ." Mireille slouched, closing her eyes. "Just before all of this, I was actually thinking about moving to the countryside." She smiled a bit.

"Mireille."

"Hm?"

"What about Tsuki and Rhain?"

Mireille had forgotten about their saviors. She lowered her eyes, and ran her hand through her sweat-matted hair. "How could we have been so blind?"

She remembered the accurate gunshots, the mid-air stunts, the tactical bursts of flames. Flawless. Sneaky. Casual. Awing. Yet terrifying.

"We should have known better," said Mireille, glaring into thought. "Nothing like that—like those two—ever swept over our heads. We could sense the enemy with their guns, but not these girls with their expertise—?"

"Apparently they're not the enemy," said Kirika, leaning her head back against the dumpster. "We had nothing to worry about."

"I felt _something_. I just didn't realize it was from them, what it was. They couldn't be candidates of Noir. I mean, _we're_ Noir, right? The trials are long past—."

"_Are_ they?" challenged Kirika, eyeing Mireille's arm.

Her partner ignored her. "And where'd they come from . . .?"

Kirika perked up to the sound of running. "Mireille. They're here . . ."

Mireille looked at a fire escape above them. It was out of their reach, unless she boosted Kirika up. But then she hesitated. Neither was in the condition to apply pressure to her feet or her arms, and climbing up that fire escape required just that. Was it worth it, only to be stuck up on the rooftops? Was it better than being down here, though?

"We go up," ordered Mireille, standing up. She put her two fists together, even if it meant using her wounded arm.

"We'll both be slow on that ladder—if they see us, we're dead," said Kirika.

"We don't have a choice—."

"I found them!" shouted someone.

"C'MON, we've been through worse!" snapped Mireille.

Kirika whimpered as she stepped onto Mirelle's fists, which catapulted her. She grabbed the ladder hanging from the side of the first veranda of the fire escape. Kirika grunted, pulling herself up. She whimpered through the unbearable, straining pain in her shins. She was a sloth moving upward, trying to hold on.

It was pointless. Kirika being up on the ladder only made them more visible targets. Bullets banged against the metal, miraculously missing her. Without hesitation, Mireille whipped around and fired. At the other end of the alley by the street were three men. They ducked behind the corners of the alley; the third advanced, dive-rolling behind a thick pile of trash bags—it didn't save him from Mireille's relentless gunfire.

Above her, Kirika dangled, with only her upper body strength to rely on. She barely applied pressure to her less wounded leg. Their enemy found her an easier target with Mireille hidden, and opened fire. Kirika screamed, more at her pain than the bullets.

Mireille charged. They were distracted in that split second for her to gun them down. She got one right in the forehead who had just peeked around his corner. His comrade stayed behind the opposite corner.

However, this made Mireille vulnerable in her attempt to stand from her roll. He pulled out, and fired.

"MIREILLE!" shouted Kirika, killing him from her perch.

He staggered from the gunshot in his shoulder. Mireille remained crouched from her roll; she looked over her shoulders at Kirika. The Japanese's balance was crippled, but she had made it to the first flight of stairs. The latter sighed with relief, and ran back toward the fire escape. She didn't have time to think, so she stuffed her last gun in the back of her jeans, and winged it: she stepped up the wall and reached for the ladder. She caught its rungs in a dangerous swing, grunting and wincing. She started her ascent.

Kirika, who had already made it to the rooftop, shouted down to her. "Mireille!"

More gunshots.

Mireille looked up, only to watch Kirika disappear from the edge. More battlecries. She ran up the stairs faster, but someone shot down at her, forcing her to kick through someone's window. She landed in a living room, which was thankfully empty at the moment. She heard from outside, "She's inside one of the rooms!"

_Kirika,_ she thought, taking a breather. She was hot and sweaty, mouth dry. She looked for a bathroom and drank ravenously from the sink. But she thought about how every gasp for breath meant Kirika's impending death, whether she'd been shot already or not. Mireille ran to find a flight of stairs up to the roof.

Kirika scrambled up to her feet, tripping behind a cluster of air conditioners. She landed on that healing wound from their last battle with Altena, which surprisingly hadn't been hit yet till now. She cried out in agony, and lay there trembling, letting go of her gun, holding her side. She felt her wound, but gasped when she barely touched it. Her hand fell to her belt, something to squeeze, to distract from the pain . . .

She shuddered, to keep them from hearing her breathing.

But they found her.

About five men approached her.

"A puny girl?" exclaimed one of them.

"You couldn't tell from all that shitload of shooting earlier?" grumbled another.

"Clever," said another. "Short hair to impersonate a man's figure; a petite, benign figure to disguise age; and an innocent personality to only blind."

"It's not that clever."

"Well, did _you_ expect a child in the underworld business?"

"Well, no . . ."

"She's clearly not a child. Maybe seventeen—."

"What about her friend down there?"

"Humph, she's somewhere inside." A foot pressed lightly against Kirika's skull, exploring soft spots. "Such little time. Which do you prefer? We kill you before she gets here, or we go all the way down there and kill her, just before we kill you?"

Someone snapped their fingers. Then, footsteps fading as they galloped down what sounded like stairs—stairs that led to Mireille.

A kick to her ribs. The pain was intolerable. No sound escaped Kirika, although she squeezed into a ball. She sweated from how much her arms tightened around herself, just to endure it all. She rolled onto her other hip to keep her wound out reach, but he smashed his foot upon her shin. Finally, Kirika screamed, jerking.

"Is that a bullet in your leg?" chuckled her tormentor. He reached down, pressing his finger slowly into her wound.

It was like burning in flames; Kirika wailed, trying to crawl away. He enjoyed the idea of easily removing Noir from its title, especially in this fashion. He towered over her then followed her patiently. He watched her drag herself around the corner of the vents, propping herself up against its cool metal.

Kirika heard the sound of a click.

"So, what are those epic last words squirms like you say before they become a nobody in the pages of history?" he mused cynically. "Oh, lemme guess. 'Noir, it is the name of an ancient fate'. Something like, 'I'm Noir, you can't kill me'? Well I think I CAN—!" He smashed down on her shin again. "BECAUSE I'M DOING IT RIGHT NOW—!" He gutted her in the side wound from the Manor. "Huh? HUH? You're nothing but low meat—!"

"Noir," corrected Kirika, gasping. "It's _Noir_!"

He paused, then chuckled. "I was hoping for a more heroic last line—."

Kirika whipped out her belt from her jeans. She turned around, and without looking, slashed. She didn't think she'd be able to hit him, but she hadn't been aware he was leaning down to press his gun against her head. The timing couldn't have been anymore convenient, as she felt the blows of the buckle. It banged against his skull, then violently brushed his torso, and whipped his limbs. He backed away, face marred in bloody scratches.

While he was blinded, he aimed his gun, as if hoping to hit Kirika. However, a bloody hand grabbed his wrist, keeping his gun pointing upwards. He panicked, shooting into the sky.

"She's more meat than your dust and bones," growled Mireille, who took his gun and reversed it at him.

He managed to catch a glimpse of her through his swollen eye. "How could you be THE Noir—?" he shrieked.

"Noir's a name for two," said both women.

Mireille shot him point-blank, then gently pushed him backwards over the edge.

No sooner than she did, she turned around and aimed her gun at three men standing at the entrance to the stairs.

"Noir, huh?"

Two guards flanked Grey Varrichione, loading their guns, itching to shoot on command. The scumbag himself pulled out his own gun. This time, he wore a black pinstripe suit with a shiny red tie, and red rims tracing along the collar folds or cuffs. There was a gold Soldats pin on his left breast. His blondish hair was slicked back as usual, but up close, Noir saw neat facial hair growing along his jawline.

V snapped his fingers. One of his guards held something black. It mewed. He gave the cat to his boss, who stroked her back. V even tickled under her chin, a familiar gesture that lodged a thorny feeling in Kirika's throat.

"Mireille!" she whispered, looking at the cat.

"Actually, her name is Noir," said V. "She was mine to begin with. Just a snare that led you to me. I knew, one day, Noir would be sent after me. I studied everything about you two, your hobbies, your schedule—so I could kill you."

"Says the man with guards," said Mireille with a straight face. "Always having everyone else do things for him. Typical."

"No one needs to know how I killed Noir. No one cares," said V, shrugging. "I always admired the title of Noir, the deadly weight it put on every tongue. So in honor of your upcoming death and my inheritance of the title, I named this cat after you."

"It's just a name," said Mireille, who aimed her gun at him and pulled the trigger. But it was empty.

The men looked at her and grinned. V shrugged. He snapped his fingers, the sound replaced by explosions as his guards opened fire. Mireille and Kirika ducked, throwing themselves behind the vents Kirika hid behind earlier. The sound of crunching, clanging metal. The deafening boom of bullets. The whooping enemy.

And somewhere in all that smoke and confusion, Kirika saw the cat jump out of V's arms. What a selfish fool for bringing his cat to a battle. The sound frightened her, as she flew into the range of fire.

"MIREILLE!" screamed Kirika, about to get up, but her partner pushed her back down.

There was a startled cry from the other side. The gunfire had stopped. Noir peeked over their cover, as two people flipped over V's men. They landed in front of the enemy, kneed them in the groins, and—as the guards keeled forward—grabbed them by the shoulders; they rolled backwards, throwing the guards over them. A classic move, but that's what made it brilliant.

"What the?" shouted V, dive-rolling away from the fray. He hid behind the small, separate roof that covered the stairs. His guards landed on their backs but managed to get up to counterattack Tsuki and Rhain, who had no weapons. Noir anticipated flames but—

But nothing happened.

Tsuki and Rhain still fought a good minute without releasing hell. There was only so much combat they could maintain against men with weapons.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" boomed Rhain, who flipped backwards, clipping a bodyguard in the jaw at the same time. "Finish him off!"

"Where are your flames of hell?" roared Mireille.

"Lost them when you last saw us!" yelled Rhain, as if offended and annoyed that they said such things at this time.

"YOU WHAT?"

A horrible reminder that they were mere humans.

Tsuki's long braid served well in temporarily blinding her foe, twirling around her almost like a defensive shield. She spun to dodge a few punches. However, her opponent grabbed her braid and pulled hard. Tsuki cried out, trying to pull back on her braid. He aimed his gun. She realized she wasn't as strong as him, so she used the momentum of his strength to her advantage, twirling, her braid growing smaller as she roped herself in closer to him. She flew past his gun that was still outstretched, leaving him open to Tsuki's fist.

"Kill them all!" shouted Tsuki, tornado-kicking the gun out of his hand.

Mireille peeked over just to see it slide across the roof gravel. At the same time, V, from his cover, saw it too. They saw each other, then raced for it. Mireille lunged. Varrichione panicked at his delay—but when Mireille reached the gun, V pulled out a spare gun hidden from the back of his jeans. He aimed at Mireille, who had just grabbed the fallen gun.

"It was the only way to lure you closer," he panted, pulling the trigger.

BANG.

Mireille fell, but so did he.

Tsuki and Rhain looked over to where Kirika had picked up another fallen gun and shot V. Then she flung the weapon aside and dragged her dead weight to Mireille; she'd just suffer another gun wound on the side of her thigh. Tsuki and Rhain rushed to the woman as well, Tsuki making sure V was dead, and Rhain inspecting Mireille's wound. However, there was too much blood to pinpoint bullet entry.

"Mireille!" cried Kirika, feeling dizzy from blood loss.

Mireille was flat on her back, arms limp at her sides; she gazed up at the sun, now eclipsed by Kirika's face.

"Mireille!" repeated Kirika. Tsuki tried to stop her from straining herself.

"Stay away from her for now," snapped Rhain, checking Mireille's pulse.

"Idiot . . ." gasped Mireille.

Rhain paused, not sure whether to grin as she looked into Mireille's dimming eyes. "No bantering, not just yet," she said weakly, tending to the wound.

"No . . . V . . ." murmured Mireille. "I ran to lure him, too."

"Rhain," said Tsuki hurriedly. "Varrichione was shot _twice_."

She pointed out the gunshot in V's head from Kirika, and another in his stomach. They stared back at the gun next to Mireille, the one she had dove for. It was steaming.

"That's Noir for ya, even in the face of death."


	6. Chapter 6: Stillness

Chapter 6

Stillness

Why was it always her who survived? Her to survive alone? In guilt . . .?

It was warm. Something brushed against her, barely tickling her.

_"Mireille!" _

Kirika shot up in bed.

It was empty next to her. Not even a spot indicating that someone once laid there; the bed was warm because of her body alone. Kirika looked around. It was so quiet, that it hurt. It was the silence that sang loud, telling Kirika she was alive and that this was real—that Mireille was really gone.

"Kirika?"

Farther down across the room from her bed were sliding doors. They flew open, Tsuki and Rhain peeking in. They rushed over to Kirika, hushing her to lie back down. She didn't seem to register them, or just didn't care, as she sat up her legs and cried into her hands.

"Mireille," she croaked.

"She's in another room," said Rhain softly. "She's fine, trust me. We had to reassure her you were fine, too."

Kirika stared at them, as if afraid they were just protecting her feelings. She wasn't stupid; she remembered all the blood, the sound of two gunshots. She looked at Tsuki and Rhain hard, tears brimming her eyes.

"If you can't trust us now, why trust us back there?" exasperated Rhain. "If it makes you feel any better, just a half an hour ago she said, 'I'll feed you to the Soldats' hellhounds, you blonde American stripper, if you don't tell me where Kirika is now'!"

Tsuki laughed. "That is _not_ what she said. Stop playing victim." She locked eyes with Kirika. "All she said was, 'Who are you? Where's Kirika? I'll shoot you' . . . you know how she is."

That _did_ sound like Mireille. Quick to the point.

Rhain glared at Tsuki. "Either way, it's not something to laugh at lightly."

"But you two are so alike, more than you want to admit!"

Kirika couldn't help but ignore them. She looked around, realizing they weren't in Mireille's apartment. Machines beeped all around her, strung to her. It was a more homely and rugged than most hospitals, providing her with her own bedside table with its remote controller for the TV in the upper corner across from her, and a giant plant in a rounded vase in the corner. A humble drawer with a large, wide mirror stared back at her next to the small bathroom.

Kirika whipped off her covers. Her legs were bandaged, yet barely blotched from blood. Her thigh throbbed, but the bullet removed. Kirika bent her knees, the effort not anywhere as painful as before. It still pinched, but it was bearable. The bullet in her shin was gone, as if there was never a boulder trying to move around in her bones.

"So this is a hospital?" asked Kirika.

"No, it's a children's daycare center," said Rhain sarcastically.

"_Sis_, sarcasm," growled Tsuki, threatening another slap.

"You're sisters?" asked Kirika, looking at their obvious differences.

"We like to think we are," said Tsuki, smiling warmly. "Nothing better than finding family, right?"

Kirika immediately started crying, not out of despair but relief that Mireille was alive—and yet she cried because she so badly wanted to see Mireille. She wanted the proof.

Tsuki tilted her head sympathetically. "It's alright. Everything's alright for now."

This alarmed Kirika. She narrowed her eyes at the two women. "What does that mean?"

Tsuki gave an impassive expression. "You can never escape the world you grew up in. Sooner or later, they'll come back to find you."

"I know who _they_ are," said Kirika slowly. "But . . . who are you?"

"Not them, that's for sure," chortled Rhain.

"That doesn't answer anything."

Rhain sighed. "If you really want to know, we'll meet you at . . . hm, let's say at Oakhaven Lake. Mireille will know where that is."

The two started toward the door, but Kirika called out to them. "Why won't you answer me? Who are you? How'd you know about us, about V, about Noir?"

"Who doesn't know Noir," said Tsuki, shrugging solemnly. "As for the rest, we'll explain at the lake. We'll see you soon, Kirika. Rest. A doctor will come in soon to check up on you. You're in safe hands—."

The door to the hallway slammed open, nearly hitting Rhain in the nose. Mireille marched in, ripping off all those hospital suction cups. With a gun pointed.

Rhain jumped backwards, cursing. "SHIT, woman!"

Mireille glanced past her at Kirika, then back at them. _"Move." _She walked past them, turning around to keep her aim on them. She slowly walked backwards toward Kirika.

"Mireille, it's alright," began Kirika.

"Are _you_ alright?" stressed Mireille, even though her eyes never left the other women.

Kirika couldn't help but smile, her heart over churned with joy. "Yes."

"We _told_ you—," began Tsuki, but Mireille fired, her bullets punching holes in the wall behind them.

They both froze.

"Before we walk out here unscratched," growled Mireille, "you're gonna close that door and explain _everything_—."

"NOPE, bye!" exclaimed Rhain and Tsuki, who fled through the still-opened door. On instinct, Mireille fired after them—but they were gone. She roared, furious.

Rhain quickly peeked back out. "By the way, Barbie, you're paying for those holes!" And disappeared before Mireille could raise her gun again—which, with two arms, hurt.

"Mireille, your arm," cautioned Kirika.

"It's better than before," admitted Mireille, gasping.

Kirika paused. "How did you get a gun?"

"They put guards on me."

Kirika couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Because they knew you'd do what you did. You stole the gun from them, didn't you?"

The French grinned weakly, but continued to grit her teeth in pain.

Kirika gasped. "Mireille, you're bleeding!"

The way Mireille burst into the room made everyone believe she had fully recovered. The blood seeping from the blonde's hospital gown, however, reminded them of V's gunshots. Mireille felt the area between her collarbone and heart. How close she had been to death.

She grunted, sinking to the floor.

"Mireille!" panicked Kirika. "Someone, help!"

Just as Tsuki and Rhain promised, doctors ran into the room. They helped her up, Mireille's arms around their necks.

"If you ever want to leave this place, please don't do anything rash," one of them said. "Tsuki and Rhain worked hard to get you out of harm's way."

"Apparently," growled Mireille, almost in thought. She looked back at Kirika, who sat there, watching after her protectively yet with relief.

"I'm sorry, Mireille," said Kirika, overlooking the long hill winding down to a pond.

"For what?" asked Mireille, leaning on the rail. They were out on the veranda outside of Kirika's hospital room. It turned out it was a section attached to Tsuki and Rhain's house. The simple yellow-ochre building didn't boast royalty, but the fact that it had a hospital section said so much about their background—and yet, it still didn't explain anything. They clearly weren't the enemy, so who were they?

"For blindly going after V to retrieve _his_ cat," answered Kirika. The last time she saw the creature was in the middle of the fight. She can't remember whether or not Mireille got struck in the line of fire.

"I'd be pissed too if something important to me was taken like that," said Mireille, frowning at her. She closed her eyes, looking away. "In fact, I _was_ pissed." Her mouth became a tight, thin line, but her eyes said everything.

Kirika watched Mireille, saying nothing. The silence stretched on, seemed to tighten like taffy, until Mireille spoke again.

"So. You fully healed?"

"The doctors said we could go within the next few days."

Her friend snorted. "Humph, telling us when we can leave. They rescue us wounded strays but throw us into the pound."

Kirika shook her head, frowning. "Maybe them—but Tsuki and Rhain? I don't think so . . ."

She couldn't put her finger on it but she felt safe here. The house's interior almost had a log cabin feel to it. Wooden walls with their gnarly, knotted patterns. A stone fireplace elevated on a stone shelf inside the rugged living room. Two bedrooms decorated with personal, ancient things like Bhuddist necklaces, Asian incense burners that were little tea cots on top of larger tea pots, hand-size Zen gardens, or silky red and gold or white and black Asian-themed bedcovers. And yet, the exterior still maintained its Parisian flair with the vines crawling the walls and the ebony iron French furniture . . assuming they were still in Paris. Rhain had mentioned Mireille knowing about a nearby lake . . . assuming _that_ was nearby. Regardless, there was something about the simple house on its secluded, rolling hills and scattered trees that made Noir wonder how young girls like Tsuki and Rhain made a living.

Both their expressions darkened. Something heavy stirred within them . . .

They both knew. So, why couldn't they admit it together, aloud, this time? It was no different from before, was it?

They enjoyed their remaining two days, in the luxury of not having to clean up their own place or make their own breakfast. That was Mila's job, the housemaid. She came by early every morning, and left around early evening. On weekends, she stayed there in her own separate room. She was a bittersweet older woman, but nonetheless, loyal. Especially whenever Noir tried to investigate certain parts of the house. She'd often poke them outside with a broom to wander the trails leading from the house. She also defended against anything Mireille said about Tsuki and Rhain if she was within earshot of Mireille's mumbling.

Finally, Noir decided to leave for Oakhaven Lake. It wasn't till late into the evening, though. They threw on their new simple tanktops, jean shorts, and sneakers Tsuki and Rhain left in their rooms. But when Kirika saw her friend slip a gun into the back of her jean shorts, covered by a sleeveless brown leather hoodie, she was alarmed:

"Why the guns?" said Kirika.

Mireille hissed in annoyance. "Varrichione's 'buddies' will soon realize his absence in their line of business."

"Enough with the guns. We have Tsuki and Rhain."

"Hmph," snorted Mireille. "They barely made it in time to even save us."

"But they saved us."

"Well, I wouldn't call them pros."

Mila drove them to the edge of a national park, and far into the woods was a lake. It was in a clearing, crowned by thin woodland. Two nearly-perfect oval-shaped islands of golden grass sat across from each other in the water. There was a little bay where land jutted out toward the water, patched with enough trees to make shelter.

And there, under those trees, sitting on rocks, were Tsuki and Rhain.

Mireille and Kirika walked toward their saviors. All the while, Kirika sensed something different in Mireille. It almost felt peaceful and longing, and yet there was something haunted about it. The Corsican looked around them, inhaling the fresh air. Her eyes carved out the details of every plant, bush, tree, or tall grass.

It was still drizzling from the midday shower, silver slices in a rare lighting. They had never seen the sky this pale gold and mystical, as if someone had added a sepia layer over the scenery. Everything seemed to glow.

When they approached the two girls looking into the water, Mireille couldn't help herself. "So. Tell me."

Rhain turned to face them. "Ha. The same thing you told Kirika when you first met." Kirika's eyes widened, Mireille slowly reached for the gun stuffed into her pants behind her. "We know about the guns—after all, _we_ left them there by your beds for you."

"Only a handful know about that fateful day," said Mireille, glaring. "And the only ones who knew about this lake . . . was my Uncle Claude, after our exile from Corsica . . . and the Soldats. You're the Soldats, aren't you?"

Rhain shrugged, blowing her full crown of bangs from her face. "Who else would we be?" She folded her arms, leaning against a skinny tree.

Mireille fought an expression, as if to contain her rage. She lowered her eyes. "We knew . . . and yet, we wish it wasn't that."

"Why?" asked Tsuki, tilting her head.

"You know why," murmured Mireille, looking into all their reflections in the still water. There was a moment when she thought Tsuki and Rhain looked so much like them. "Because the Soldats took everything from me. My home. My family. My childhood. They nearly took Kirika . . ."

"And yet," added Kirika, squinting in confusion and hurt. "Here they are, standing in front of us . . . after everything they've done to us. How could you be the Soldats? Why did it have to be you two? So young, so kind . . ."

"I mean, yeah, we're one of them," murmured Tsuki, "but we only represent the small part of them that we agree with: our belief in nurturing Noir."

"What is Noir to you, then?" hissed Mireille, as if insulted by their presence on sacred grounds. Her gaze seemed to caress the lake she had cherished in the remainders of what little childhood she had.

"That's why we came to find you—to find that answer ourselves," said Rhain. She smiled grimly. "Well, the way we see it . . . is like this. This lake, for example. Have you ever felt so peaceful? Like you understand _everything_ all of a sudden? Even here, looking at our reflections, we understand how cruel the world is. We accept it, for some reason. This is you, Noir. A life of solitude, peace, yet darkness."

"How can those go together?" croaked Kirika, glaring.

Tsuki's brow wrinkled in thought, dipping her bare foot into the water. It was the kind of fresh lake where the water was clear enough to see the defined pebbles in the underwater mud. Underwater vegetation stood tall like skyscrapers. Salamanders basked on the leaves while crayfish paroled the floor, snipping at the lazy tadpoles floating by.

"You go and kill the corrupted things of the world, cleansing everything until it's clear again," said Tsuki, looking through the water. "Well, when getting rid of corrupt things, along the way, we get tainted with that corruption, too. That darkness and hatred leeches to us. We feed it on in return, to remind us again why we draw our swords and walk into the night."

"That makes no damn sense!" said Mireille through gritted teeth.

"We've had our share of blood, too," said Tsuki, exchanging a look with Rhain. "And from each death, we understand the darkness. We accept it, and find peace."

"How do you find peace in that?" asked Kirika, lips quivering. Mireille looked over at her and immediately took a threatening step toward the other two.

"It's called balance," said Rhain, sighing, as if sick of the drama. "Think about it. This sky is going to be no more beautiful than it is now, knowing you could die any time."

"Is that a threat?" hissed Mireille.

"No one lives forever. And if you're _Noir_, who knows when _that_ could be."

"We plan to _live_."

Tsuki and Rhain's expressions were blankly inscrutable. This made them strangers, who wore the same observant expressions of scientists watching their experiments thrive. It wasn't as condescending or regal, but Noir was sick of being looked at like that. They wanted to be free.

"So," began Rhain, "what will you do when the underworld calls for its grim reapers to judge mankind, including the sinners deserving of such?"

Mireille closed her eyes, smiling bleakly. "Tell them we're sleeping in."

Tsuki giggled; Mireille glared at her, insulted. "That's it? You won't pick up?" asked Tsuki.

"The Soldats . . ." whispered Kirika. She looked up at the other two. "We never knew enough about them to understand them completely, even after meeting Altena. But we understood it enough: they were once a group that sought to save mankind from itself. They thought that, as long as two of their chosen cut down those who fed on the innocent, their black deeds would be forgiven by God himself . . ."

"'Their black souls protect'," agreed Tsuki, nodding. "That's what Altena wanted, wasn't it? She saw the corruption in our modern world, and tried to lure Noir back down, deep under its roots, to remind them why they walked the earth. Except, Altena's sufferings have clouded her judgment, too, in a way, different from the recent Soldats. So, really, both Altena and the Soldats were wrong. Both parties had tried so hard to control you, stunting your growth through brainwashing and endless, relentless trials, rather than allowing you to grow naturally as saplings."

Mireille snorted. "And what makes you so different?"

Tsuki and Rhain lowered their glance to the ground.

"You assigned us to assassinate Varrichione. A typical, simple job. And it went wrong _why_?"

"Varrichione thought himself part of the Soldats of the Old, also to become the start of the Soldats of the New," grumbled Rhain, scratching her head. "He surprised us with his cat stunt. He fooled us both."

"You sent us after a dangerous man, one of the Soldats' very own!" shouted Mireille. "He was more powerful than you made him sound to be. I haven't faced so many gunmen since that Poisonous Insect! And if you were so _concerned_ with us, with Noir—if you knew we didn't want to live this way anymore—why did you assign us V in the first place?"

"To see if you would take the contract. To see if you still thought yourselves Noir."

"I was always an assassin before becoming Noir," said Mireille in a flat tone. "I was doing what I've always been doing."

"But you knew Kirika didn't like it," said Rhain.

"I . . ."

"Why did you make her do it?"

"I . . . I don't know." Mireille felt a stab of guilt. Killing has always been part of their nature. She had meant to remind Kirika of that—but now that she looked back on that moment, that pain on Kirika's face, she realized it was more than just a life's lecture. She dragged them back into Noir, and for _what_?

"Killing's . . . all we're good at, isn't it?" croaked Kirika.

"That's up for you to decide," said Rhain sternly. "If you really were serious about quitting, you would've have picked up different professions right after Le Grande Retour."

Mireille opened her mouth to protest in Kirika's defense, but closed her mouth. They were sort of right. If they badly wanted something, they should have taken it long ago. It wasn't that hard to find _any_ job, really. But thinking about what kind of mundane job they'd pick up was hard itself.

"It's not easy to break a lifetime habit," said Tsuki sympathetically. "We understand. So maybe right now, at this lake, is a good chance to start. Live the life you want. Simple and quiet. It's your choice after today's picnic whether you want to go back to that life."

"Picnic?" asked Kirika.

"Yeah, you didn't notice?" said Rhain cheerfully, pointing at the basket and blanket laid next to a giant rock. "We thought it'd be nice to get to know each other and have a picnic!"

Mireille gaped at the abrupt change of mood. She looked at Kirika to gauge what the Japanese thought, but her friend was already hypnotized by the idea as she sat down on the wool blanket.


	7. Chapter 7: Your Life

Chapter 7

Your Life

Everything seemed still, yet alive. It was like they were stuck in heaven, the way the gold evening reflected in the lake.

Noir sat there, watching Tsuki and Rhain finish unpacking the large woven basket. It's been a while since they had seen traditional baskets like that—let alone, going on a picnic together. It was something Noir never thought of. They had biked around Paris and ate small snacks by rivers or dined out . . . but an actual picnic? For some reason, not doing so made Mireille feel stupid.

"That's . . . a lot," said Mireille, watching Tsuki snap open a bag of potato chips, then remove fluffernutter sandwiches in plastic bags from the basket. "Wait, peanut butter and _marshmallow_ sandwich?"

"You too _adult_ for that?" scoffed Rhain, pausing in the middle of lighting small candles with a familiar cigarette lighter. They fitted perfectly into small teacups on plates they placed in the middle of the blanket.

"You calling me old?" challenged Mireille, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't say shit. You assumed!"

"Anyway," said Tsuki, unwrapping goat cheese and crackers. "We brought lots of food because we didn't know what you liked. We've got chips, macaroni salad, water bottles, soda, watermelon, steak, pepperoni—"

"My favorite!" chimed Tsuki.

"Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, slices of salami and chicken—."

"Chicken can die," grumbled Tsuki.

"Celery with peanut butter, carrots, apples—."

"You can stop now," said Mireille.

"Shall I add poison to so-and-so's drink in courtesy to their warm aura?" offered Rhain, feigning a wide smile, as she popped open a bottle of Champaign.

Mireille smiled. "Now you're talking," she said, as Rhain served them champaign in plexi-glass wine glasses.

"Oh," added Tsuki, swathing butter on honey wheat bread. "Did you guys bring swimming suits?"

"What for?" asked Mireille.

"What _else_? Wait, you didn't? I thought we told Kirika to bring swimming suits." Tsuki paused, looking at Kirika. "I didn't, huh?"

Mireille gave Kirika her usual glare, to which the Japanese shrugged cutely. She smiled apologetically, but smiled. Mireille couldn't help but return the expression. The weather was decent, almost balmy, and the atmosphere perfect. Mireille closed her eyes, allowing nostalgia to take over. It was the best way to replace their edgy Soldats conversation with something warm and familiar.

Kirika was right: they had nothing to worry about. They still didn't know who Tsuki and Rhain were, but they knew they were in good company. So Noir feasted on simple things. They helped butter the bread, pass out the napkins, and organize the food on their blanket. From there, they all ate in reasonably content silence. Every now and then, Rhain and Mireille muttered what they thought the other didn't hear, but there was something comforting about it. Bickering over small things felt normal.

In the middle of chewing on her pepperoni and cracker, Mireille finally asked, "So, what's your story?" She slapped the side of her neck at the whine of a mosquito.

"Here," said Tsuki, handing over bug spray; Mireille choked on her own cloud of bugspray all around her. "We're just like you, Mireille. We're humans."

"Seems kind of unfair, doesn't it?" grunted Mireille, chin on her hand as she chewed her cracker. "You know everything about us, but we don't about you? What kind of common ground is that? We're not friends—but have some courtesy."

Rhain poked a fork in Mireille's direction. "We saved your pretty polished ass. Give us _that_ courtesy."

Tsuki snickered with Rhain, while Kirika looked between both parties nervously. She shot a look at Rhain. "You didn't save us. We still had to take down V's men. You barely got us out there alive. Also, Mireille has another point: you haven't answered any of our questions, yet."

"Ok, ok," said Rhain, hands up.

"Wow, just like that?" growled Mireille, glaring at Rhain, then Kirika.

Rhain cried out, "I'm sorry, she's just so damn—ARGH! When someone as sweet as her looks at you like that, you don't just turn her away! But when a bitch like _you_ looks at us, it just makes us want to piss you off even more." Rhain snorted, then burst into laughter at her own joke. This earned her a glare from Mireille, who then gave Kirika the ey.

Mireille continued. "So, where did you learn those moves?"

"Same as you?" said Rhain, as if confused by an obvious answer.

Mireille stood up, growling impatiently. "I can't do this anymore."

"Whattttt?" exclaimed Rhain, hiding a sneer, looking up after her.

"Is it so _nauseating_ to give us answers?" snapped Mireille.

"We are all connected, Mireille, by a similar black thread," stated Tsuki. "Our story isn't so happy or amazing. It has no happy beginning, but it definitely could have a happy ending. Because it was our life and we chose it to be that way—see, that's what we're trying to tell you here!"

"Is that so?" murmured Mireille, who started wading into the water. She became overzealous by the chilly water, remembering the childish excitement she felt every time she went in, the fresh smell of water. She felt a smile pull at her lips, slowly but surely. The water was already past her knees; she accepted the cold water and the cold world it belonged to. She sank deeper, until she felt the coldness seep pass her thighs, soaking and adding weight to her jean shorts. And just like that, Rhain shoved her.

For just a moment, Mireille allowed gravity to drown her. She was floating—no, flying. It was the best feeling in the world, allowing your body to go limp, your hair moving on its own accord. You felt invincible, safe, and one with everything around you. Mireille was in a different world; everything felt warmer, clearer.

When Mireille finally resurfaced, slicking back her slimy hair, she heard Rhain laughing.

Rhain was pointing, bent over. "DUMPED! You so got dumped! Ahaha, no boyfriends for you!"

Mireille wiped the water from her eyes, hissing through her teeth. "That's the second time you've done that!"

But then she heard someone else laugh. Not smiling, not chuckling, not lightly giggling. Not stifling it behind a hand. Laughing. It was Kirika. Her whole body shook, shoulders shuddering, head rolling back. She wasn't holding back.

This innocent atmosphere lured out the little girl locked inside Mireille all those many dark years. For a moment, she'd really thought little Mireille was dead with the Bouquet family. But as Mireille laughed along, she realized she how much she missed this happy, knotting pain in her stomach. She certainly hadn't laughed _this_ long, either. She was almost in love with it, like a child listening to her first song.

It was finally dark enough to start the fire. Mireille looked at the sunset. They watched its glow crumble behind the trees that blocked the sky. The two "sisters" kindled the embers of a fire in a pocket between a giant slanted boulder and a smaller cluster of rocks hugging the corner of the brush. Mireille watched the orange glow in Kirika's now black eyes. They just sat there while Rhain poked through the underbrush for sticks.

"Bored, huh?" hummed Mireille.

Kirika shook her head, giving a small smile. Her content showed in the way she leaned into the fire or watched the other two bustle around.

Vexed, Mireille said to Tsuki, "I'm not gonna ask again. Who are you?"

"What does it matter?" sighed Tsuki. "We're like you, trying to live, trying to lock our pasts away in a chest, let it rot there until cobwebs collect. Please respect that."

Mireille chuckled. "It's not as if I'm going to use the info to track you down and murder you in your beds. At least not Tsuki."

"Bully!" roared Rhain from somewhere in the darkness.

"How old are you?" asked Kirika.

"Seventeen," said Rhain, who sat joined them, tossing a bundle of sticks on the ground.

"So, answer her but not me?" growled Mireille.

"Did you say something?" asked Rhain, carefully placing the sticks one by one into the fire.

"WAIT," shouted Mireille. "You're only in high school?"

"We were home-schooled . . . by the Soldats," said Tsuki. "Calm down, Kirika's the same age and you weren't _swooned_ away by that."

Rhain laughed, pretending to prod Mireille with her stick, its tip on fire. "You, my beloved friend, need a few anti-depressants. And a RIFLE, maybe . . ."

"If you didn't go to school, then what is your daily bread?" asked Kirika, staring them down hard.

"We are not Noir, but we always hoped our 'black shields protect'," said Tsuki. She suddenly smiled. "Ya know, who said you had to get into all this dark mumbo jumbo crap? Who said you had to kill just to kill? How about joining us and making a new living off of protecting others?"

The fire glow in Noir's eyes seemed to flicker. "Soldats who protect? Huh. That's new," said Mireille, staring into the flames. "So that's what you do? Go around protecting people with your kill skills?"

"That's our ideals versus the current Soldats," said Rhain, shrugging. "We came along, wondering if you agreed. Can you imagine Noir itself changing its very meaning? I mean, c'mon, you're _Noir_. No one can tell you what to do."

Kirika's face had gradually lit up. She was beginning to grasp Tsuki and Rhain's philosophy. "It's better than what we've been doing," she whispered. Everyone looked at her, Mireille especially holding her breath. "However . . . it doesn't atone for everything we've been doing. It sounds tempting, to use what we're good at for the good. But . . . it doesn't change anything. Killing is killing. We don't have to kill or protect. We can just get new jobs, with new habits."

"What do you really want from us?" asked Mireille, staring at their new acquaintances.

"It's not what we want," said Tsuki, grinning. "I think you know what I'm going to say next."

_"What?"_ blurted Mireille.

Rhain laughed at Tsuki, who drooped. "C'mon, Mireille, I was hoping to sound cool here."

"What she means is," began Rhain, turning to Noir, "what is it _you_ want, Noir?"

Mireille looked at them. Not glared. Not observe. Just. Stared. "First off," said Mireille, "to not to be addressed as Noir, as if we were angels of death."

"You are, whether you like it or not—."

"And second," interrupted Mireille, looking sideways at Kirika next to her.

Kirika's eyes met hers, the warmth of their irises battling— searching beyond the color, beyond the fire, beyond the smiles, facial expressions, their gestures. All those battling feelings, those curious glances they shared, seemed to disappear, and their eyes seemed to smile gently and genuinely.

Ever since their work bound them together, Mireille had not gotten used to Kirika's casual, deadly movements, or her eerily calm voice and blank, dark eyes. They used to be full and black, like glistening pools of darkness. Now, they were a soft burnt sienna.

"What's that? Hmmmm?" sang Rhain, leaning in with her hand to her ear as if straining to hear.

"All I want is Kirika," said Mireille. "To be happy." She pressed her cheek against the palm of her hand, looking toward the silver blue lake. "All I care about is seeing that she is protected, that her feelings are protected. That she never suffers what she's gone through. Ever."

Despite the dancing shadows, Mireille could read Kirika's face more than she ever could. It never occurred to her how much she really did love Kirika. Honestly, she'd been the only one there for her. She stood by Mireille's side a majority of her life, even seemingly more than her remaining childhood with Uncle Claude. Mireille's love for him was nostalgic, not full, not fresh or true; he had only been the fragments of what was gone. The more she tried to think about her family, the more she forgot what her mother, father, and brother looked like. The more she thought about it, the more their faces became Kirika's.

The sweet, burning flutter in Mireille's chest wasn't the same love as one would have for family or for a lover—yes, she felt like kissing Kirika and hugging her . . . but it wasn't like _that_. Not one bit. It was just simply love. Love in its simplest, purest, most genuine form.

"Interesting," said Rhain, mimicking how Mireille sat on the blanket, leaning in, hand pressed against cheek. "Mireille Bouquet . . . heh, the Soldats said you'd end up like your father. But not even close . . . even Altena knew that. How creepy . . ."

Mireille laughed dryly. "Altena was just a crazy bitch who dropped herself into hell."

"She knew about the truth about humanity, though. She's been through a lot, even though it clouded her judgment. But in the end, it made her insightful. That's what made her a leader—not a crazy good leader, but a leader."

"She may knew the truth about humanity, but she didn't know anything about me. Or my father." Mireille paused, then frowned. "But neither did I. All I remember is a loving father who got his family into something dark. His love was the only love I knew. I hold onto that with deep pain because that's all I knew—his love. And yet, I didn't really know him. So, maybe Altena knew people like him, but we'll be fair in saying that _neither_ of us knew him."

Mireille seemed to drift off in reminiscence.

"In a world of darkness, it's hard to trust anyone," said Tsuki. "But when you do find that one person, you'd do anything for them. The Soldats were mistaken in thinking they could forge an extension of their will—two simple harbingers of death—whereas Altena forged a _bond_. That's what the trials and the Three Saplings was for . . ."

"Please stop," whispered Kirika.

Everyone felt the world around them again. They looked at Kirika, almost confused.

"Don't talk about Chloe like that," snarled Kirika, engrossed by the fire. "It's true that, in the end, I chose Mireille. But these trials of 'choosing' . . . it was cruel. Altena pitted us against each other just to win each other's affection, just so to see which two were more dedicated to each other, just to see which two would fight the most for each other against this world—a simple, yet heinous tactic on the Soldats' end." Kirika's brow crinkled as her lips trembled. "The three of us could have been friends."

Tsuki nodded. "We came here to add more sense and meaning to what was originally not a bad idea on Altena's end: not to bend but mend the two most powerful assassins. There is really no point to life without someone to share it with."

"So," whispered Kirika, "you came to help us realize our bond, to strengthen it?"

"So you could have a stronger Noir than before," said Mireille. There was almost an ominous edge to her tone, but she smiled it off. She closed her eyes, then reopened them. "You're using us. But . . . I guess anything to keep Kirika with me, against the world. Just the two of us . . ."

"Not the world. Just a few people here and there," corrected Tsuki, shaking her head hopelessly. "The world's not as bad as you think, ya know."

Mireille stiffened. _ "Don't," _she snarled.

Tsuki leaned forward, returning the glare. "Don't act like you're the only ones who've suffered. You're not the only human beings."

"Have you really walked around your very neighborhood thinking every human being was horrible?" challenged Rhain, folding her arms. "You've met your few who have reminded you that not everyone is bad, right? Like, I dunno, _Kirika_?"

Rhain's sarcasm threw Tsuki and Kirika into a fit of giggles. Mireille glared at them, as if they had ruined the sour mood. However, she seemed to absorb Rhain's last words as her gaze on Kirika softened. The Japanese leaned a bit into her, sideways, almost on to her shoulder. Then, she contained herself, sitting up with her knees almost touching Mireille's.

The touch was different from their many times sleeping in the same bed, backs pressed against each other. Making tea side by side. Eating across from each other during meals. Fighting side by side. Even during their lazy afternoons in the parks, they didn't sit this close to each other; Kirika was sometimes painting while Mireille was reading or lazing in the grass. But never in her future did Mireille see herself sitting next to the killer of her family, at a campfire, with their worst enemies.

To not stare into someone's eyes; to not speak a word; to not move; to just listen to your surroundings and sit there and accept their very existence next to you—_that_ was love. Both women felt it through this simple accident of their knees touching each other on their rock.

After some thoughtful silence, Kirika said, "Mireille?"

"Hm?"

"What . . . now?"

Mireille had closed her eyes, feeling sluggish. She just smiled, shrugging, and leaned forward to catch the warmth of the fire. "Dunno."

"Whatever you want, right?" said Rhain. "Your life, not the Soldats'."

_"We know that,"_ retorted Mireille. "What do you think we've been trying to do these past couple of weeks?"

"Oh, _bite_ me, Noir," snapped Rhain, rolling her eyes. "I finally warm up to you—literally, with a goddamn campfire—and you can't embrace it! Not to fucking mention we brought food and—oh, I dunno—pulled you out of there after V died when his reinforcements drove in!"

Everyone laughed, and that's all Noir ever wanted to do.


	8. Chapter 8: New Day

Chapter 8

New Day

Nothing was more refreshing than waking up early the next morning to the excited chirping of birds. The color of the sky was a dim blue, like that of twilight. It was as if the world was slowly coming back to life, only this time, they could feel it in their bones. Although they awoke earlier than they normally do, they felt light and renewed in their body and mind. It was an interesting twist to Noir's routine, not hearing the drone of traffic, not being surrounded by the familiarity of building next to building.

Rhain dipped through the flap of her tent. "So, how will the newborn rise with the morning light?" she asked, yawning, stretching her arms over her head.

She trudged over to the campfire where Kirika and Tsuki had started breakfast. They hovered pans over the fire, in which bacon and eggs popped and steamed.

"Where's our morning beauty?" asked Rhain cheerfully, looking around.

Kirika smiled up at her, then her eyes pointed toward a curve of the lake. "Beauty walk," she said in equal jest.

"Why don't you join her?" offered Tsuki. "Rhain and I can take it from here."

"I just woke up!" barked Rhain.

"It'll help wake you up for sure, sis. Go ahead, Kirika."

Kirika smiled, unharmed by the immediate morning dispute. She stood up and left behind the sound of bickering, and took her time following Mireille's trail around the curve of the lake, making way under and over fallen trees, or carefully rounding around bulging rocks and jutting hills. She found herself panting to keep up with Mireille, who was visible anywhere on the lake as long as she clung to the shore. Kirika had never seen the blonde dare to trek such terrain so willingly, save for the occasional missions.

"Mireille!" called Kirika, finally catching a break as she bound across a pebbled shore. The Corsican dragged her bare feet through the fresh water, hugging herself in Tsuki's borrowed sweater. She stopped, but didn't look back at Kirika. When her friend stopped behind her, Mireille decided to look into the ebbing water.

"This was one of my favorite spots at the lake," said Mireille, smiling fondly. She sniffed in the misty air. "I figured to give it a visit before we left for home."

"True, it's our home," said Kirika, tracing Mireille's gaze. "But so is the lake. It doesn't have to be your last time coming here."

Mireille beamed. "True."

This spread Kirika's smile. She would savor that look on Mireille's face.

"What did you two do here?" asked Kirika innocently, trying so hard to see the lake through little Mireille's eyes.

"In my seven-year-old self's eyes, I always thought the minnows loved to gather at this spot. I was so convinced they were like me: little children finding a place they could gather to play, away from prying parent eyes. Uncle Claude often narrated whatever they'd be saying to each other, or what it was they were doing if separated from others."

Kirika crept closer to the clear water, watching the minnows hovering in the same spot, mouths speaking unheard words. She leaned against her knees, looking closer. She pointed at one fish prowling through some plants, away from the other minnows.

"This one's playing Hide-and-Go-Seek," narrated Kirika. "And these ones over here are talking about how to find him."

"No," said Mireille, leaning with her. "I think it just wants to be alone. As do we all." Kirika looked at Mireille as if she ruined the mood. The blonde chuckled softly, tucking her golden hair behind her ear. "I lost my sense of imagination, huh? Ok, well, how about he's conspiring how to jump them? Because they're actually bullies?"

"Oh look," said Kirika, pointing at another one floating up mindlessly next to the solitary minnow. "He has a friend. He's not alone."

Mireille looked sideways at Kirika. Then, there was a sudden burst of the tiniest bubbles as the two minnows broke the surface. They were gone before Noir could register what caused them to surface. As the water settled, they saw that all minnows had fled. They stared into their own reflections, a magenta sky behind them. A salamander wiggled by, as if swimming right across the sky.

"It really is like looking in a mirror," murmured Kirika. "But seeing so much more than what's reflected."

Mireille looked at their reflection, then straightened up. Kirika stood tall and joined her as they gazed at the lake. The sky was beginning to melt into a warmer blue, appearing as if it was merging with the lake and becoming one with it. For a moment, they could not tell sky and water apart. They wanted so bad to walk across the water, but dared not disturb a moment like this never to be witnessed again.

"It's the closest we'll ever get," said Mireille, head dipped back at the cotton-like clouds. She then looked back at the water. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Kirika nodded in contentment.

"What's all these papers?" asked Kirika, who had returned from a simple morning's grocery run. Paper scattered across the pool table, a mess that surpassed their days as assassins researching their targets.

Mireille was leaned back in her chair, arms behind her head. It wasn't the relaxed posture one would mistake from afar, but a confused and lost posture. She found herself watching the cat nestled on the windowsill, its tail twitching off edge. They had found the creature awaiting their return when Mila dropped them off at their apartment.

"I can't find them," said Mireille softly.

Kirika blurted, "Who?"

_"Them."_

Kirika's heart nearly jerked at the mention; she looked at the computer screen. Windows overlapped each other, with different pictures and descriptions. There were so many faces looking similar to Tsuki and Rhain.

"Their names are Tsuki and Rhain," said Kirika sternly with sacred purpose. She noticed Mireile's foot bobbing impatiently under the pool table. "No, they weren't even ex-Soldats. They were our friends. I'll never forget last night, sitting outside, away from the world, for once, next to two actual human beings."

Mireille straightened up in her chair and leaned forward toward the computer screen. "Those bastards," hissed Mireille. "Leaving us without a trace with no information."

Kirika narrowed her eyes at her partner. "Mireille. They don't want to be bothered. Just like how we want to be left alone, in peace."

"How cruel is that, though?" cursed Mireille, slamming her fist on the table. "I mean, you come along to help. You hint, and you hint, and you hint—even chat! Save our lives! Then, poof! You just leave. The torment!"

"Mireille," said Kirika. "Maybe they're trying to tell us something: we are no longer Noir! We don't have to hunt or fear of being hunted. We're not assassins, just us! So let's stop trying to figure out who they are, and enjoy the rest of our lives. Even if it's just the two of us, with no friends or family, even if it means being like an old married couple."

The French looked at Kirika, wide-eyed, halfway through throwing a crumbled paper ball across the room. She immediately lowered her hand, the paper ball falling to the floor. Mireille pondered some more before smiling.

"I shouldn't have expected any more from those two," chuckled Mireille.

Kirika fidgeted with something in her palm. She felt the markings of the Soldats pocketwatch with every inch of her skin. What a poisonous, yet familiar thing to leave there for them. Mila must have snuck it in during their recovery at Tsuki and Rhain's.

Kirika wanted to reassure Mireille about Tsuki and Rhain, but found her voice dry as she studied the pocketwatch: "I doubt that was our last time seeing them."

Mireille didn't say anything, unsure whether to agree or not, looking out the window.

Kirika walked over cautiously to Mireille the cat. It still had to get used to them, having had little time to familiarize with them before and after Varrichione's death. Alarmed, it looked up at Kirika, watching her hand as she slowly reached out to pet it. It embraced the gesture by pressing its forehead against her palm, begging for a pet down its spine. Kirika obliged, glancing out the opened window. It wasn't the same as Oakhaven Lake, but she learned to understand and accept impermanence no matter the setting—but to also look at the same things differently.

"I think I'm done expecting," said Kirika. "Let's just enjoy an early morning here in our home. Oh, and, are you in the mood for some tea?"

Mireille stared at her from her seat in front of the computer, then sighed. "I thought you weren't expecting anything," she said, standing up.

Kirika opened her mouth to protest and prove her wrong, but Mireille smiled, waving it off. "I've got it, I've got it. But you're buying a new plant for that table when we go out."

Kirika continued to pet the cat, looking out the window. The sweet sting of cinnamon tea filled her nostrils, the whisper of the Paris streets ringing in her ears, the calming touch of cat's fur under her fingertips.

It really was that simple.


End file.
